


The Baker of Kirkwall

by pinksundays



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Baking, Crime Scenes, Crimes & Criminals, F/F, F/M, Family, Family Drama, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Humour, Library, M/M, Romance, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2019-07-29 23:15:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16274372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinksundays/pseuds/pinksundays
Summary: In the busy city of Kirkwall, there is a hardworking baker by the name of Garrett Hawke who supports his family with his little business. Then one day, the path of Baker, and Librarian meet somewhere in the middle and their story begins to write itself.This, is that story.





	1. Starting Pages

**Author's Note:**

> This idea started because I wondered what it'd be like if Fenris was a librarian, and I'd like to thank Jessica aka CuriousThimble for being my wonderful beta and for putting up with my endless screencaps XD; Shoutout to Emily and Russell for reading my terrible snippety-first-draft and giving me their honest opinions [heartsign]. And finally, to the amazing artist Laura (laugan-art @ tumblr!) whom I commissioned this beautiful artwork from!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Garrett Hawke, the Baker of Kirkwall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am in fact, a librarian who runs a small home-bakes on the side for extra moolah :p

 

* * *

'I can't do it,' I say dramatically, slouched over the countertop. I'm exhausted from overthinking. I feel a dull pain on my forearm and nearly jump out of my chair. My favourite red-head has just whacked me with my own whisk. I'm being abused by my friends.

'You always say that, Hawke. Stop sulking. You always sulk.' That's Aveline: my favourite red-head, and the big sister I never had.

 _'Yeah, then he goes on design the best cake yet, running on three hours of sleep and Netflix,'_ Varric comments with a sarcastic laugh and I can see him rolling his eyes at me from Town Hall.

We're on video-call—his new way to both get work done and torment me with clever insults. I see him doing that spinny thing with his pen and I know he's plotting something in the depths of his brilliant mind. Probably a murder. Man-slaughter? Poisoning? Oh, maybe a creepy blood ritual—you never know with Varric.

I should mention that he's a writer.

 

Aveline picks up two of the little squeeze bottles of food colouring from the counter. 'It's a children's _birthday party_. I'm sure the four-year-old won't care if the dragon's red, or blood orange!'

'Five,' I correct her.

'What?'

'The kid's five,' I correct her again and she's staring daggers at me. I raise my hands in sudden defeat, cursing my own stupidity. You'd think that after all the time I've known her, I'd know better than to correct Aveline Vallen.

'Look, I'm thankful for the vote of confidence and moral support but it's different for me, okay? One day there's going to be a cake that someone strongly dislikes and it'll eat at me for the rest of my life!' I toss the crunched-up design of the cake into the bin, watching it go in without even hitting the edge.

 _' **Shit!** ' _we hear Varric swear and he disappears out of screen for a bit.

 _'You do realise that this is a library, do you not?'_ an unfamiliar voice comes through the video-call and we can see Varric scrambling for his phone before the video gets cut. Great, now I've gotten him in trouble with the librarian.

 

Aveline sighs and fishes the design I just threw out from the bin. She opens it, then proceeds to smooth it out onto my counter. 'You're always so hard on yourself, Garrett. Whatever you pull out of that oven will always taste good. Do you want to know why?' She's using her _big-sister-Aveline_ voice now—gentle and comforting for the soul.

I finally sit up. She doesn't normally call me by my name. No one does, really. Aveline plucks a little star out of my hair and smiles. 'Because you do it from where it matters most.'

She hugs me, and I return it. God, I wish I had her confidence in me. I scan the design again, but all I can see are imperfections throughout—the proportions, colour, flavour combination of the cake. What was I even thinking?!

I shut my eyes and groan, allowing all the annotations of the stupid cake to fade into oblivion. Maybe Aveline's right. Maybe I **am** too hard on myself.

She reaches for her phone that's been buzzing in her jacket and briefly scowls at the screen before turning back towards me. 'Maybe you need a fresh perspective, or flavours you haven't experimented on. Why don't you go to the library and flip through some recipe books?'

She does have a point. But there's just one problem.

'I don't have a library card. Haven't had one since... well, in years.' I suddenly remember my last visit to the library and I feel a weight in my heart but I focus on Aveline's voice.

'Just because you don't have a library card, doesn't mean you can't _visit_ the library, Hawke,' she laughs and makes a grab at her bag. She does have a point, again.

She pats me on my flour-covered shoulder and waves me off as she leaves my studio. 'Remember, Hawke. Library!' she reminds me, then she's gone.

 

I'm glad she quit her job at the Kirkwall City Guard. I've seen her more times in the last six months than I did the whole of last year! But that's also partially my sister's doing. She makes sure that Aveline doesn't work overtime too often.

I spin myself on the high Thinking Stool, contemplating to call my voice of reason but I decide against it. She's probably busy training and my predicaments aren't important. It's actually pretty solvable. I just need to stop whining and get my ass to the library.

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

Kirkwall's library is... something. Well, as a library built in Hightown of all places, it has to look like it actually _fits_ , right? Honestly though, it looks like it's made entirely out of technology. The windows are all tinted a dark blue which only allows you to get a glimpse of the interior if you stand at certain angles, and there're some workers who are hoisting what looks to be a large digital board to be mounted on the second floor, just above the entrance. It used to be a one-level building with heavy double-doors for the entrance.

'Varric, I know I sleep a lot after every major order,' I whisper casually while meandering through the shelves. I have him on call in an earpiece with my phone in my back pocket. Sneaky, I know.

 _'I believe the phrase you're looking for, Hawke, is_ pass out _.'_

I half-snort. He's right though. Every huge order takes a toll on me—emotionally, physically, you name it. 'Fine. But I didn't pass out for a whole _decade_ , right?'

 _'So the library got revamped,'_ he says carefully. ' _A few trendy computers, digital signages, a huge cardboard dragon to greet patrons when they come in—'_

'An _escalator!!!_ ' I say too loudly, then cover my mouth like the overgrown man-child that I am. 'What library has an escalator?! And a lift!' I add.

 _'It has four levels, Hawke. Think of the elderly, the disabled, and the downright lazy—take Rivaini, for example. Why, you'd only get her to climb those stairs if there's a pot of gold dangling at the top!'_ I snort, loud. This was a very plausible scenario.

 

Of course I get lost on the first floor (there really was nothing but computers, a newspaper section, and a room _full_ of students hard at work). I had no such luck on the second floor either, distracted by various book displays scattered about (I literally walk from end to end before realising that it's a whole level filled with nothing but fiction books). With a little more luck on the third, I finally reach the section I was looking for since I got so helplessly lost. They should have a big sign above the shelf that says **BAKING** in big bold letters instead of regular side-panels with all the numbers.

 _'Did you find the shelf?'_ Varric asks. He's been guiding me remotely because I was too afraid to ask the Librarian at the counter. He practically lives here when he isn't at the lab, working on the novels he's writing.

I tap the line that says _641.81 Decorating Techniques_. 'Got it!’ I say triumphantly and dive into the shelves.

Dad used to bring me to the library when Marian and I were little. We'd go every Saturday after he closed the shop, listen to the afternoon storytelling session, then get some desserts for after dinner from a nearby bakery. Then the twins came, and the visits with Dad got less frequent. It didn't stop my sister from going to the library weekend though. Marian _loved_ books—she used her library card until the laminating film was worn out. Me? I spent time helping our parents with the twins whenever I could. Those were simpler times. Good times.

I pick a few books off the shelves (I say few but I'm practically balancing eight books in my hands) while listening to Varric chat about work stuff with his colleague. He's working a graveyard shift and I like listening to idle talk about his work. It's not every day you have a friend working with dead people—so essentially, anything they talk about is interesting.

 _'_ — _do you, Hawke?'_

'What?'

 _'I said my colleague's getting married on short notice—_ _it's complicated—and there isn't a wedding planner that'll take them. D'you think your friend might be able to squeeze in a spot for November?'_

I start to leave the section, then I see a book I recognise. 'Late autumn, huh? Anything fancy?'

_'I think so. His parents are socialites, as is the future-Missus.'_

That's six months away. 'Hmm, I'll need to ask Bull. No promises, though. November's a tricky month. Late-autumn-early-winter weddings are in trend now that the leaves have shifted seasons,' I say while contemplating to go back into the shelf to grab the familiar book. That's when I see the Librarian.

'Uh oh.' Varric's telling me that he owes me, but a kind of fear that I haven't felt since I was a toddler has me rooted to the ground. I remember being a three-year-old watching in sheer horror as a Librarian dragged a boy towards the entrance by his ear. He never turned up for storytelling sessions again.

'Varric, the Librarian. Would you describe her as witchy, dresses in dark colours, and has yellow eyes that can pierce through one's soul?'

_'Oh boy, she's one of them. Did she see you?'_

I nod and swallow hard, forgetting we're not on video-call.

_'I take that silence as a yes. Don't run Hawke, you'll just piss her off even more.'_

'Tell my siblings I love them.'

 _'It was a pleasure knowing you, Hawke,'_ he honours me with a laugh, and the line goes dead.

Then I'm left alone to face the wrath of the Librarian for talking on the phone in the library.

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

'It was your fault,' I tell her, pouting while mixing the bowl of white chocolate ganache. I think I need to blitz this in the microwave again. I can still see a few chunks of chocolate that hasn't melted.

I hear Aveline laughing from the speaker. She's on video-call as I usually am with my friends while I'm at the studio baking my day away. My brother—Carver—helped set it up for me a few years ago after an incident so that I can answer calls while I'm elbow deep in icing and chocolate. He works at a big tech company and pulled some strings for the favour, free of charge. It's not much—just a big-ish iPad that's mounted to the wall. The SIM card's connected to my work-number, so it's essentially a really big work-phone. The downside? People can usually see what a mess the studio is when I'm slaving away.

_'You have ganache in your beard, Hawke.'_

The second downside: my friends seeing the messy baker that I am, though, they really shouldn't be surprised anymore.

 _'And I didn't say that you needed to go to the library_ immediately _, you daft man!'_ she's still laughing, and I can see her entering an elevator. The video pauses for a bit.

She's right though. The Head Librarian—Morrigan—was more miffed at me for coming in fifteen minutes before closing rather than me breaking library etiquette.

 _'Sweet Maker, is my brother_ ** _still_** _going on about his terrible first-new experience at the library? It's bad enough that we had to hear it over supper_ ** _and_** _breakfast this morning.'_ Marian cuts into view, stealing Aveline's phone. I set the bowl down on the counter, detach the iPad from its mount and take a seat on the Thinking Stool.

'Can you accompany me the next time I go?' I whine while trying to wipe out the chocolate from my beard with a clean cloth.

Marian starts cackling, and I hear a snort from Aveline. I have terrible family. I should consider disowning them.

'My fear of Librarians are extremely valid! If Dad were here he—' my voice cuts off, as does her laughter.

Sometimes this happens—one of the siblings would bicker and we'd throw in the parent-card without even realising. Whenever that happens, it feels like I can see them again. Mum coming out of her workroom in her yellow sunflower apron with paint splatters all over her from head to toe, and Dad in his pink apron from the kitchen with a whisk or a spatula on hand. They were a dynamic duo—looking cross at first, but in the end, they'd pacify everyone and we'd all be in giggles and laughter within the next ten minutes.

I miss them.

 _'I do too,'_ my sister responds to my thoughts as though she heard it loud and clear. I laugh at us twinning and she mimics my laughter. Marian sets the phone down on her desk and we talk a little (Aveline offers her opinion from time to time) before their shift starts. I miss my sister terribly, too. We see each other every day, but we hardly have any time to sit down and get all emotional like we used to.

Their office phone rings and Marian's attention snaps to the side where Aveline's attending to the client.

 _'Well, work calls Brother dear. See you at home?'_ she smiles and gives me a wave.

'I'll make pancakes tonight,' I coo. Her eyes light up at the sound of her favourite comfort food.

_'Ohhh breakfast for dinner, Dad would be proud.'_

'Have fun harassing people for a living. Love you, Mare.'

She rolls her eyes at me. _'Love you back, you big sap.'_

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

It's Ganache Tuesday—which means that I _don't_ have to stay in the studio late. Which also means I can probably swing by the library before eight to get the books I was trying to check-out a few days back. The morning consists of me retrieving unholy amounts of ganache that's been sitting in one of my massive fridges overnight, breaking them into pieces according to trays, then shoving bowl after bowl into the microwave before mixing them. After that, they go on the naked tiers of lightly crumb-coated cakes that I have in the coolers. This goes on for about five hours—exciting, I know.

I catch about half a season of _Orphan Black_ before I hear the bell ring at the entrance. I give the man a wave—forgetting that I have a wooden spoon on hand and I send a blob of strawberry ganache flying to the ground. He completely ignores it. My clumsiness is a normal sight, really.

'Hey, Krem. Bull out of town?' I ask, wiping the mess off the floor while he takes a seat on the lone red couch I have in the studio. It's the only thing I have here that _isn't_ black or white.

'Yup. Chief's overseeing a photoshoot in the Storm Coast. He'll be back in a few days, provided the bride doesn't drive him off the cliffs if you know what I mean,' he chuckles as he hands me a file with some of their new clients. Thankfully, there're only three wedding orders.

Cremisius Aclassi is Bull's right-hand of The Bull's Chargers—the finest Wedding Planner company across Thedas. A few years back, I got under their radar at a local charity drive and I've been their freelance artisan baker ever since. They're good people—they usually look at the shared calendar (again, Carver helped me with that. I literally just click a button every month) and let me choose which orders I think I can fit into my schedule.

I take a sip at my cold tea and offer a doughnut to him. 'I should be able to take all three. There's a two-month gap between the first two, and I only take smaller orders in the summer and during Christmas,' I inform him and he types my confirmation into the iPad that's attached to his folio. He's dressed quite smartly today—crisp forest-green shirt, simple sandstone-cream pants, and dark brown shoes to match.

It's true, I don't take cake orders during those seasons for two reasons: 1) icing and ganache don't go well with Kirkwall's summer heat, 2) I make it a point to spend more time with my family during the holiday season. But since I _do_ still need to make a living, I stick to cupcakes, doughnuts, and the occasional cookie orders.

He takes another bite out of the doughnut. 'You're a lifesaver, Hawke. We're lucky to have you. Client details are in the file, you can meet them at your own leisure to discuss commission details as usual,' the corner of his lip pulls into a grin as he stands to take his leave.

Since he's here, I should probably ask him about Varric's request. 'Hey, are you guys packed for November?'

He takes a quick look at the iPad again while the doughnut sits between his teeth. He shakes his head. 'Nothing really jumps out at me at the moment, why?'

'I might need to call in a favour for a friend of a friend. I don't know the details but it's a last-minute wedding and it might need to be fancy,' I stand and get the door for him, catching the scent of his cologne as he passes me. _Ah, I see, he must have a date._

'Hmm, I'll run it by Chief when he gets back. Ask them to drop the details to our email and we'll take it from there.'

I nod, then hand him a paper towel for the sugar that's stuck to his mouth from the doughnut. 'So, who's the lucky lady?'

He grins at the question, and I think I see him blush a little. 'Her name's Maryden—lounge singer from the jazz bar up the end of Hightown.'

'Herald's Rest?'

'The one and only. Blew a whole paycheque just visiting every night and sittin' in a corner watching her sing. Chief told me to grow a pair and, well, I did,' he informs proudly, and I give him a pat on the back for good luck.

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

Three whole ganache-covered cakes later (each cakes were at least two tiers), _a lot_ of cleaning up, a video-call from Bethany, and three phone-calls to my new clients, I'm finally done for the day before my second attempt of my library adventure. That's when my own phone blares the morbidly old ringtone of a _Spider-Man_ theme song, and I see her name pop up on the screen along with a picture of a Celtic _Crann Bethadh_ tree.

 _'Hawke!!'_ she nearly takes my eardrums off with her enthusiasm.

'Lavellan!!' I mirror her. She's my voice of reason, and Maker I do miss her. 'How's the training in Antiva? Have you gained the gift of shooting pheasants blindfolded yet?' I joke, and she sing-songs at my mockery.

 _'Antiva's lovely this time of year, but the trainers here are harsh. Been keeping to a strict regime since I came.'_ She sounds as lively as ever.

'Nothing the _Inquisitor_ can't handle, right?' It's true. Lavellan's the strongest woman I know. A few years ago, Lavellan was in a freak accident and lost part of her left arm. She was in Seheron when the accident happened where she stayed in recovery for four months before being transferred to Nevarra by the Inquisition to undergo even more procedures and rehab. There was a twelve-hour time difference, and most of the times I called, she was either in rehab, or too exhausted to speak for long. Her sessions were brutal, and I wished I could've done more for her.

She laughs—light-hearted and delightful and it makes me miss her even more. _'I should bring you here one day. The open sea's beautiful, and I can see all kinds of birds against the blue sky.'_

'Sounds like someone snuck off,' I tease her, but deep down Iím touched that she risked getting yelled at just to talk to me, even if it's just for a few minutes. 'How's Cullen? Has he asked you yet?'

Lavellan sighs, and I can practically hear her pouting. _'You know, I think I stand a better chance at hitting pheasants blindfolded with my bow.'_

I paw at my back pocket for my wallet and keys. Nothing. I keep losing them when I'm in the studio. 'He'll propose, eventually. We're talking about the guy who took _six months_ to ask you out. How much longer are you in Antiva?'

 _'About a week. Then I get the following week off—_ _we're going to Orlais and Ferelden for a short getaway.'_ I can hear the wind blowing from her end. There's a light splash too and I can imagine her throwing stones into the water. I'm jealous that she gets to hang by the sea.

'Orlais I get, but _Ferelden_?' I know that country well enough to know that nothing interesting ever happens. Except that year when we had a plague. I should know, the four of us lived there for a time before the twins were born.

 _'Cullen said that he rented a small cottage in Crestwood. I guess some quiet time overlooking Lake Calenhad while we watch druffalo and fennec roam about would do us some good. Work's been piling up on him.'_ Her voice lightens a little, and I'm glad that they've given her time off from her training.

'That's Kirkwall for you—Gotham City of Thedas.' I find my keys _inside_ the fridge. Typical me. Now for my wallet...

_'What about you, Hawke? What've you been up to since I left for training?'_

'Other than my beard getting beardier, everything's pretty much the same around here.'

 

Lavellan was from one of the independent cities of the Free Marches—the port city of Wycombe, I believe. She practically grew up on the streets as an orphan after her mother was mauled by wolves when they were out bow-hunting. The sister—Deshanna—had a hard time keeping her indoors and behaving. The girl's free spirit could never be contained or sated—she constantly snuck out of the orphanage for days at a time, doing Maker knows what. But she never got in trouble herself. In fact, she _sought_ trouble to rectify it (petty thieves, men harassing women in dark alleys, you name it). Then one day, a scout from the Inquisition—the pioneer and most respected sports organisation of Thedas—saw her shoot apples off a thief's shoulder and recruited her for the Thedosian Olympics in archery. Lavellan was fifteen then, and after three years of rigorous training, she ended up in Kirkwall when it was our turn to host the event.

I'll never forget that day—it was late in the afternoon and I was carrying a box of newly frosted cupcakes for delivery when three bullies tripped me and called me names for wearing a pink shirt that had the words _Hawke's Home Bakes_ printed across my back. With a strength I never knew existed in a girl, she wrung two of the boys by the fronts of their shirts and had the other pinned under her foot in seconds. She was eighteen, and I was ten. We've been friends ever since. What an age-gap, right? 

 _'No boys I should know about?'_ she teases, knowing full well that I've never dated anyone in my twenty-five years of being in this world. I never had the time to, despite knowing at a young age that I was attracted to the same sex. _'And don't give me that 'family first' bullshit, Hawke! The twins are grown up now. It's time you do something for yourself, Garrett Hawke.'_ I imagine her sitting up and waving a hand in the air as she tells me this. 

I open my mouth to give her the same answer she's heard at least a hundred times over, but decide not to. Maybe she's right (who am I kidding, Lavellan's always right). When Mum and Dad were... _taken_ from us, Marian and I were nine and the twins were four. We had no other family but thankfully, our parents left us the estate to be inherited with immediate effect should anything were to happen to them. Long story short, I've been the sole breadwinner for the family. I dropped out of school (insisting that my sister continue her studies) to work various odd jobs and keep food on the table. Now, Marian has a PHD in Criminology, Carver has an IT diploma in Network  & Security, and Bethany is working towards her Bachelor's in Social Work.

As I fish my wallet out from the front pocket of one of my aprons, I hear her phone fumble and she curses. _'Shit. I think my coach sent for someone to look for me. This isn't over, Hawke! I expect you to meet someone the next time I call!'_ I can hear her running now, and can't help but laugh.

'See you soon, Lavellan,' I tell her. I always say that, even though it's been two years since we saw each other. Long distance friendships are hard.

 _'Soon can't come any faster, Hawke,'_ she replies with a huff and I think she just leapt off something before ending the call.

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

I find myself thinking about Dad as I flip through the book that I have in front of me. My love of cooking and baking came from him and thankfully, I was a natural at it too. Not one of my siblings was passed down with that privilege. When the twins were born, Dad planned out all of Mum's meals even though he was busy enough with the shop (he was a florist) just to make sure that she had proper confinement food and recovered well. Then as babies became toddlers, Sundays became _sweets-for-all_ day and Dad basically baked whatever anyone wanted much to Mum's dismay. I'll never forget the day I saw my own cupcake rise in the oven while Marian was screaming at the twins to stop fighting in the living room. Honestly, I thought it was like magic.

Taking a glance at the wall clock, I decide to get a few more books before leaving and leave my stuff on the shared reading table. I'd only be gone for five-minute, though, I risk getting my books taken away in one of those mess-up trolleys. In any case, I walk briskly (I take Varric's warnings very seriously) to the shelves where the recipe books are and emerge with two more hardcover books in toll, but not before passing the shelf that had the book which caught my eye. Quickly running my fingers across the spine labels with their call numbers, I find a gap between two newer hardcover books. It's a small gap—about half the size of my nail, really—and I can't help but wonder if the book's been checked out. So I head over to the nearest computer—the catalogue station?—where I can do a quick search on the books available and just... stare at it.

'Do you require any assistance?' a voice asks from behind me and I nearly jump out of my skin. Though I don't necessarily recognise the voice, I already know that he's a librarian.

'I—I yeah, I guess,' I respond intelligently and point to the shelf where I just emerged from. 'I saw a book there a couple of days ago but I guess someone already borrowed it out.'

The Librarian steps beside me and readies himself at the keyboard. He brings down his glasses that was resting on his head and brushes his silver hair hindering his view to get a better look of the screen.

'I may be able to help with that. Do you happen to know the title?' The Librarian's voice is deep and oddly sincere.

Ah, the title. I'm going to sound extremely stupid in about three seconds. 'I... don't actually know it. I _do_ know that it had a red spine, though.' Yup. Way to make an impression.

He raises an eyebrow and I can feel the judgement exuding from him.

'Sorry, I know how that must sound. But I saw my dad reading that book when I was a kid. I didn't know he borrowed it from the library. The bottom part of the spine's a few shades lighter than the rest of it, mended with red painters tape.'

'Believe me, if I had a dollar for every patron who told me that, I'd be living in luxury,' he responds to my stupidity so nonchalantly, then turns to me. 'Is there anything else that I can assist you with, perhaps?'

Ah, yes. There was _one_ other problem I had.

 

The Librarian takes down my identification number, and full name before retreating to his counter on the first level. He said to come by when I was done browsing and ready to borrow, and he'll have my new library card ready for collection. Maker, I hope I don't have any outstanding overdue fines to pay...

I check my phone for messages and see one from Bethany telling me that Carver has bought groceries on the way home (bless that child. Only she can boss him into that). Apparently, we're having an attempted seafood stew tonight—not that I mind, though I question my younger sister's culinary skills. Upon my approach to the librarian's counter, I see four people in queue and decide to pop by when he's less busy. The kiosks nearby intrigue me and it comes to life when I lightly tap the screen. I select the tab [ _check account status_ ] and I'm prompted to scan my library card (which I'm still lacking, of course). Unsure of what do to next, I hover over to a huge digital screen on one of the walls. Every few seconds, it flashes a new promotional poster—be it programmes, double-loan promotions, and upcoming charity events. I'm in awe, really. Have the libraries truly changed so much in just a decade?!

'Hawke,' the now-familiar voice breaks me from my trance and when I turn around, the Librarian's holding out my new card. It has my name and membership number printed in black uppercase letters. I try to rearrange the books I have on hand to take the card from him.

Realisation dawns upon him. 'Ah, my apologies. I should have realised that you have your hands full. Please, allow me.'

We head over to one of the borrowing stations and he glides the plastic card into the little slot with the neon green light. It beeps, and the screen quickly flicks to a borrowing page with my full name and membership type on the right-hand corner.

'Whoa,' I remark like a kid in a candy store while I set the books down beside what seems like the borrowing pad. This amuses the Librarian and he asks if it's been awhile since I've been to the library. I nod, and he patiently refreshes my memory on how to borrow my books. He directs me patiently and I follow, placing the books onto the blue borrowing pad (I don't have to borrow them one by one anymore!) and selecting the number of items I've placed. He advises me to remove my items and repeat the process to renew them for another three weeks (so, six weeks in total) and I do just that. After everything, I click [ _end transaction_ ] and a receipt prints out from a slot below the card scanner.

 

'The last time Dad and I were here, books were checked out at the counter using one of those date-due stamps with an ink pad!' I say a bit too loudly as I glance at the receipt. Thankfully, he didn't seem to mind.

'That was a long time ago, Hawke.' He's already remembered my name. Did Librarians used to be this observant? Shit, I should take note of his, too. Maybe leave him a nice comment on a feedback form for his service. They still have feedback forms, right?!

The Librarian hands me a nice little tote bag for me to bring my books home easily (I borrowed six and it is physically _impossible_ for me to lug the three enormous hardcover ones without me possibly injuring myself as I walk three blocks down back home), then he escorts me to the entrance where the giant cardboard dragon is.

'Thank you for visiting us today, and I wish you a pleasant evening. I trust that you will be a regular face here, surely?' he asks with a slight bow. Maker, he's so polite! Not many people in Kirkwall are this polite! It's like politeness has ceased to exist in this city—even in Hightown.

He has a hand casually in the pocket of his neatly pressed grey pants, and the other adjusting his glasses that sit nicely on the bridge of his nose. I squint to get a look at his white name tag that's pinned on the left side of his burgundy cardigan. He has this veneer of calm that I can't quite explain, and my fear of librarians has completely dissipated into thin air, thanks to him.

'Definitely. I suppose it _is_ time to come back here,' I think of Dad again, then realise quickly that I'm spacing out. 'Anyway, thanks, Fenris. You've been very kind for someone who's a lost cause at technology.'

He holds up a hand. 'It was no trouble. It was nice to meet you, Hawke.'

 

When I get home—ecstatic with the pile of books I have—dinner is already in the pot. It's just past eight and Marian's home early too. She asks to see my new library card and when I take my wallet out I see the receipt, but not the card. I fish out all my books and literally shove them at Carver after flipping through each and every one of them.

Bethany cackles with laughter (it's a sight to behold, really), Carver rolls his eyes at me, and Marian all but sighs.

 

I've left my brand new, shiny library card, in the machine.

* * *

 


	2. The Hawke-Amell Siblings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hectic mornings, history lessons, and a touch of baking—we get a glimpse of a typical day in Hawke's life. Minus a dead body, and the terrifying Commissioner of the City Guard, of course.

* * *

‘Passport?’ My eyes don’t leave the frying pan, and I take a sizzling dumpling with a tong to inspect the bottom. Golden brown, perfect!

‘Inner jacket pocket,’ Carver answers as he comes over with a serving dish on cue. I place two pieces on his dish and it earns me a scowl.

‘What?’

‘The food on the plane is _terrible_. Have pity, Brother!’ I snort at that and plop three more onto the dish. Both the twins have appetites that could probably win some competition. My money’s on my younger sister.

‘Wallet, boarding pass, collapsible cup?’ That’s Bethany who has just materialised to my other side with _her_ plate. I see that she’s already helped herself to a few pieces of the rolled omelette that Carver helped to slice. He’s definitely food-driven. I place three pieces on hers as well and she kisses me on the cheek.

Carver retrieves two bowls of rice and hands one to Bethany as she takes a seat across him at the table, then proceeds to _inhale_ his food at an alarming pace. Bethany  is just taking a sip of her soup when he finally swallows. ’Back pocket, electronic copy, _and_ checked in online , side pocket of my bag.’

‘Put your wallet in the hidden compartment of your jacket. Did you take a picture of your identification card and passport to save in your phone?’ Marian’s suddenly behind me (it’s a Hawke skillset that was unfortunately _not_ passed down to me) and she’s vigorously drying her hair. I know she is because I can feel the free end of her towel slapping onto my back. She snatches a pair of chopstick s from the counter and begins to pick off the array side dishes I’ve prepared, stuffing them into her mouth one after the other. I turn off the heat and begin skewering the remaining three pieces of the dumplings.

 

While I wash some of the dishes, Marian tells us that Varric asked her to swing by the lab first thing this morning. Bethany whines about how Carver gets to travel for work while she has to go back to the university at the end of the month. Poor boy, he _hates_ flights. And he _hates_ being a bloody P.A. But my little brother has talent, and I’m sure he’ll do more than just manning someone’s planner if he gives it a few months.

I hear a soft _thump_ to my right and turn to see Siobhan sitting on the countertop. She’s our resident calico who followed Carver home one day—and just after we lost Barkspawn, too (he was the family dog, and he was really old).  We named her after Marian’s alleged ‘real’ name. Dad thought she was a _Siobhan_ , but Mum insisted otherwise. I lower my head a little and she nudges my face, purring. ‘I suppose you want breakfast too, right?’ She meows. Siobhan’s smart that way.

‘Here, I’ll get the rest of the dishes.’ Did I mention that Bethany’s an angel? She really is. By this time, Siobhan leaps onto my massive shoulders and drapes herself over them while I break apart the (very lightly seasoned) horse mackerel that I’ve grilled for her earlier.

We hear Carver’s heavy footsteps around the house as he frantically tries to locate something he’s forgotten to pack. Marian’s yelling from the living room while trying to tame her hair in the mirror near the door. She’s in her burgundy Capri pants, and an obscenely short white crop-top which shows off her abs. Her hair and black ankle-high sneakers completes the look. Doesn’t exactly scream _private investigator_ , I know, but put Aveline on her side and the whole look helps with scaring people into telling her what she wants.

The water stops running and I hear Bethany placing the dishes onto the rack to dry. Siobhan looks at her dish that I’ve just placed on at her feeding area, then back at me with a slightly tilted head and meows again. ‘Fine, fine, you caught me,’ I tell her, and retrieve the fish flakes from the cupboard. After I sprinkle some on top of her meal, she proceeds to devour her breakfast with the gusto of a Hawke-Amell child.

‘Your train to the airport leaves in _fifteen minutes_ , Carver!’ Marian reminds him, jangling the car keys to remind him that she’s his only ride to make it to the Gallows on time to catch that very train. He groans, and I can empathise with him because Marian’s a _shite_ driver. I laugh,  giving him a pat on the back. His phone vibrates in his hand and after taking a quick look at the screen, he rejects the call and pockets it.

‘Try not to smite your boss.’

He groans some more and gives Bethany a hug. Marian’s waiting impatiently by the door—skewer of dumplings already in-between her teeth. Then she wraps a strong arm around Carver’s neck and the door closes behind them.

 

‘Right, I’m off too!’ my youngest sibling announces cheerfully, taking me by surprise. She has her ballet shoes hanging from her bag.

I raise my eyebrows. Bethany has a lot of hobbies and she drifts to new ones from time to time. Ballet was one that she stuck with the longest, but got too busy to practice when she started her semesters at the University. ‘When did you take up ballet again?’

‘I didn’t. I’m just filling in for Tamra today since she’s feeling a bit poorly. I’ll see you when you get back!’ Bethany gives me a kiss on the cheek and makes her merry way out.

‘Well, I guess it’s just you and me for now, Siobhan…?’ I see her tail slowly disappearing from view as she makes her way upstairs for her post-breakfast nap and I can’t help but smile. Mornings in the Hawke household are usually this chaotic. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

Kirkwall has always been a city of trade—we’re strategically located in-between Ferelden and Starkhaven, just before Nevarra, and the only means of sea-trade for the city of Orlais. We haven’t much land of our own to have our wide farms and greenhouses, so it works for us. People come here from all over Thedas and the Continent to trade their wares—from the finest wines of Toussaint’s vineyards, to the abundance of fresh produce of Ferelden, to even the rarest kinds of fish fresh off a Rivaini fishing boat.

But there’s a dark history that resides in our past, and it chills me to the bone that we used to be active in the slave trade during ancient times. Where I stand here today—in Lowtown—is where Masters used to parade their ‘merchandise’. Where slaves were tortured for things as small as not standing up straight, or scratching at their neck braces which dug into their skin.

Thankfully, that all changed when the Champion of Kirkwall arrived. They did more than just freeing the slaves, they calmed the city in its most desperate times more than once.

 

‘How much do you need today, Hawke?’ a familiar voice breaks through my thoughts.

I blink. ‘What?’

‘Oh my, you’re spacing out again,’ she comments with concern, placing a few mason jars onto the shelf to my right. ‘Is something the matter, Hawke? You can come into the backroom if you need to sit down!’ Merrill? Oh, right! I was figuring out what kind of Marigolds I needed for the cake. I need to stop spacing out.

‘Sorry, I was just thinking about the history of our city. I think my mother mentioned it once, but it was a long time ago.’

‘I can refresh your memory if you want!’ she exclaims enthusiastically, clapping both hands together with glee.

I’ve known Merrill since she moved to Kirkwall three years ago—about the same time I’d just gotten the lease on the studio. She was from everywhere, really. Her mother was an Archaeologist and a researcher, so she’d never stayed in one place for long. Merrill _loves_ history, but she never had the intention of pursuing a degree like her mother, or become a Historian like some of her cousins. She knew all kinds of stories dating back Maker knows when—and that to her, was enough.

Somehow, she’s found home here in Kirkwall and sells tons of organic stuff—flour, steel-cut oats, bamboo straws, collapsible cups and the like. Some mornings like today, she has a small supply of fresh flowers a merchant brought in straight from Orlais. She called me about it this morning. Do _not_ underestimate the floral demand here in Kirkwall.  We have a lot of budding artists, chefs, and event companies who use all kinds of flowers in their work. And don’t even get me started on the helpless romantics. Once word gets out about her special shipments, you’ll have dozens of people streaming out of the door to get their hands on them.

‘Sure, Merrill. All my siblings and the cat have abandoned me, so I’m on my own today,’ I laugh and let her take me by the hand.

I take a seat on a stool that’s too small for me in the backroom while Merrill rummages through her cute little bag. It’s cream coloured, with an intricate green design embroidered at the front. With an adorable _aha!_ , she fishes out her worn bullet journal and flips through the pages at astonishing speed and is practically bursting with excitement.

 

‘In Ancient times, we once belonged to the Imperium—a city known as _Emerius_ after an ambitious Magistrate with the same name. The Imperium was thriving, but there was a slave revolt and an attempted assassination against Archon Vanarius Issar. Fearing for his life, Kirkwall was elected to be the heart of the new and growing slave trade.

Decades later, the Gallows was constructed, followed by the Imperial Highway and we were the mightiest Imperial city with over a million slaves, defended by the Knights of Black Cadre.

Spanning the many Ages, we finally broke off from the Imperium, but became notoriously known as _Kirkwall: The City of Chains_. Ruled by Viscount Dumar, Kirkwall was supported by two factions —as was the rest of Thedas: Scholars and Templars. But we were far from abolishing slavery, and far from being free of corruption. In 9:37 of the Dragon Age, tension between the Scholars’ Circle and the Templar Order grew after the Viscount’s assassination and they fought for power—plummeting the city into a civil war that seeped across Thedas.’

That was when the city looked towards the only neutral party for guidance: The Champion of Kirkwall.’

‘Unfortunately not much is known about the Champion. There was always a shroud of mystery around them and their band of misfits. But anecdotes of the Champion—though little—were always positive and heartening,’ Merrill explained, closing her journal as she ended her tale. That was... heavy. I mean, I knew we had a morbid history but what the fuck?!

 

Merrill sighs, gazing longingly at her journal. When we first met, she told me stories about lost cities like Arlathan, Atlantis, and El Dorado and how she would love to discover those cities and uncover _their_ stories. She wanted to know what life was like for those people, their cultures, literature, religion, and most importantly, their history. We were sitting by the docks that evening, and she talked into the night as water lapped quietly at our bare feet. Marian and I had an aggressive argument that morning and I just wanted to be away from everyone for the most part. Merrill found me alone because she got lost on the way back home (it was her first week in the city) and listening to her talk about history like it was a person was calming. Invigorating. Aveline found us later, and we walked Merrill back to her home in Lowtown.

‘Thank you, Merrill. Honestly, that was much darker than I’d anticipated but it’s good to know one’s history.’

Merrill returns my smile and I can see that she’s glowing. ‘History is important—people tend to forget them on purpose because of all the horrible things our people did. But remembering them—honouring them—so that we don’t make the same mistakes, I think that’s important too.’

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

I don’t usually come out to the Gallows (it’s the central part of Kirkwall where all transport comes and goes) mainly because of how congested it always is but today’s an exception as I needed to run some errands. I hear announcements coming out of Kirkwall Central Station and wonder if Carver made it onto the rapid in time.

There’s a crowd of curious Kirkwallers gathered at the square next to the statues of our Champions but I don’t pay much attention to the commotion until I notice the guards trying to get the audience to disperse. I almost walk away until I catch a glimpse of a few guards trying wrestling with a woman—namely my twin sister.

‘I told her not to,’ Aveline’s somehow found her way to my side. I _need_ to acquire this skill! We watch from a distance as she argues with a few more guards until a giant of a guard  seizes her by an arm, twisting it painfully behind her back so that she’ll stop struggling. Marian is then—quite literally—thrown out of the crowd. She gets up, brushes the dirt off herself and jogs towards us with a cheeky grin as though nothing happened.

 

‘What was that about?’ I ask as we walk towards a nearby cafe. Marian gives a friendly wave to a the server as we approach an empty table. When I try to pull the chair out with my leg, I nearly trip and make a fool out of myself but as usual, Aveline is my saviour. Holding me steady with an arm, she lifts some of the containers with her free hand and places them on our table. Taking a peek, her face lights up instantly when she sees what’s inside.

‘Are these marigolds?!’ she exclaims just as a server comes over with her coffee. It seems like they frequent here often.

Aveline’s adorable, and I laugh because they’re her favourite. ‘They are. Got them from Merrill—thought they’d go well with the cake order I have for today.’

Marian takes a sip of Aveline’s coffee and makes a disapproving face. I roll my eyes at her because she always does this in hopes that Aveline would switch to tea one day. Varric’ll answer a letter to the Merchant’s guild before that ever happens.

‘Murder—young girl, early twenties—found unconscious next to the statues this morning. People thought she was just some passed out drunk, until someone actually bothered to nudge her only to find her dead,’ Aveline fills me in a low voice while she stirs her coffee.

‘Someone tried to buy us some time, but the City Guard got here before we could. That was me causing a distraction. Now we’re just waiting for his contact. He should be here soon.’

‘Did this _someone_ happen to have a ‘V’ in his name?’ I ask, eyebrows raised and my sister all but smiles. Varric may work for the precinct, but his loyalty lies with my sister. Marian has a way with winning people over—it’s a talent. Or a superpower. Marian being a superhero wouldn’t be  that surprising to be honest.

While I imagine my twin sister in cape beating the hell out of criminals, a man manages to squeeze out from the crowd, walking briskly (and discreetly) towards us. He takes a seat behind Marian, then wordlessly hands her a folded paper while Aveline continues sipping away at her coffee without a care in the world. He’s gone in a flash and my sister pockets the note into the safety of her bra.

 

The commotion from the crime scene hasn’t died down—in fact, it got rowdier with more and more people shoving their way to see what’s happened. Why anyone would want to see a dead body just before lunchtime is beyond me, but that’s Kirkwall for you. Nosy as balls.

‘They can barely put up the barricades and cordon off the area,’ Aveline comments, sighing in disappointment.

Though the Gallows is bustling with noise, everyone hears it—the distinct clacking of heels as the woman makes her way through the square. Her presence alone _command_ _s_ silence and discipline as everyone in the crowd  parts just for her and her second-in-command who is flanked at her side. Coming to a halt, all her guards stood at attention and saluted her with a unified _Ser!_ , then proceeded to carry on with their duties.

Cassandra Pentaghast is the commissioner of the Kirkwall City Guard. I don’t know much about her—only that she requested to be transferred here two years ago to oversee the guard even though we already had someone capable in charge—Aveline. To her side, is Cullen Stanton Rutherford—my best mate’s significant other (and hopefully, her future husband).

An officer approaches her with a clipboard. He’s wearing a slightly different uniform than the rest of the officers who have on their usual dark-grey shirts and pressed black pants—his rank looks like it’s a darker orange. The officer exchange words very briefly with the both of them and after he salutes her, the Commissioner turns her attention back towards the crowd. Cullen takes a few steps forward to address the people, his voice booming through the square, loud and clear.

‘This is an active crime scene and we request that you vacate the premises so that we can section off the area to prevent contamination of the evidence. To anyone with information, please step forward to give us a statement. If there are any witnesses, we urge that come by the precinct to testify, else you face a day in the interrogation room as we proceed with our investigations... with the Commissioner.’ I catch a smirk on his expression and the crowd _promptly_ scatters at that statement. I snort. Marian, however, breaks into a guffaw.

‘That’s certainly one way to get them to disperse,’ Aveline remarks as she finishes off her coffee. ‘Cullen’s learned a thing or two at least. I’m actually quite impressed.’

‘Is she really that scary?’

‘Why don’t you ask her yourself, Hawke,’ Aveline says casually, leaning back into her chair. My head snaps back to the now-cordoned-off crime scene and I can literally feel my palms sweating.

The Commissioner strides over to us with such _certainly_ that it’s truly daunting. She’s in a simple white dress shirt with her sleeves rolled three-quarters way up, tucked neatly into her dark grey pants. Her pistol sits in the holster at her waist to her right, and the shiny badge of authority, on her left towards the front of her belt. I’m pretty sure she isn’t taller than me—even in her two-inch heels—but I feel her presence looming over  all of us like an ominous cloud. I shrink, feeling extremely out of place in this pool of legal authority. There’s enough testosterone emulating from all three of them to put any man to shame.

‘Detective, Aveline,’ she addresses them sharply, ignoring me completely. Good, maybe my invisibility skills have finally kicked in! She folds her arms across her torso and I can see the outline of her biceps through her shirt.

‘ _Comish_ , it’s lovely to see you.’ Marian greets with sickly sweetness. ‘Busy morning?’ The Commissioner scowls at that and reaches forward to grab my sister by the front of her top, literally pulling her out of her seat so that they’re face-to-face. Marian doesn’t even flinch. Instead, she smirks, angering her even further.

‘Do not think that I don’t know what you did, Marian Hawke. I have had enough of you putting your nose where it does not belong. I do not care that you have a PhD, or that you have rats sneaking about in my precinct feeding you information. So let me make this clear, once and for all,’ the Commissioner whispers, her voice practically drips poison.

‘I could easily have you arrested for obstruction of justice, or I could dismiss your friends in the precinct releasing what is clearly confidential information. Consider this a warning. As long as I wear the badge, _I_ am the law in Kirkwall, and you are just another citizen. Know. Your. Place,’ she emphasises each word, lets go of my sister, turns, and walks back towards the crime scene. The whole cafe stares at her as she does, frozen into silence.

‘Well then, back to the office, Vallen?’

Aveline grins, amused, then waves a waitress over for the bill.

Women of power are truly terrifying.

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

It’s past five when I start assembling a cake to go out for the same evening. It’s a simple one for a birthday party filled with light flavours of vanilla, and lychee buttercream in-between each layer, sealed generously in white chocolate ganache. There are just two tiers supported by four dowels down the middle. The top is entirely coloured in very light sunset-orange, and the bottom is decked in white with neatly decorated criss-cross imprints that I did with the help of a stencil, and my favourite shimmery gold lustres. All that’s left now is to finish it off with marigolds.

That’s where I’m stuck.

 

A lot of times when I’m doing the artsy bits of cake decorating (especially with flowers), I wish that our parents were still around. Both of them were artistically gifted—Dad with all his floral arrangements, and Mum with her keen eye in colour combinations. They’d know in a heartbeat which size of flowers to use, and their perfect placements. I still have an hour before the cake is picked up, so I’m not entirely doomed.

Yet.

A knock on the glass door of my studio tears my attention from the neatly stacked cake on my work counter, and I’m greeted with an enthusiastic wave from the youngest Hawke sibling. She holds up a small yellow takeaway box and my heart _sings_. It’s no wonder Bethany’s my favourite.

‘Are those from Bodahn’s?!’ I exclaim at her even though she’s still on the other side of the door. The Hawkes _love_ Bodahn’s —they mainly sell finger food like fried baby octopus, a variety of fried fritters, and mini dough-puffs filled with potatoes, eggs, and sometimes chicken or beef, seasoned generously with curry powder. Bodahn's have been around in Kirkwall for a year but the four of us have literally sold our appetites to them.

‘I thought you might be working late tonight so I bought you some snacks! Maker only knows what time it’ll be before you’d remember to eat,’ she places the takeaway box on the coffee table next to the red sofa. A light sound of flutes and violins chime from her bag—Clara’s theme from Doctor Who—and she checks her phone, raising an eyebrow before chucking it back into her bag.

Of course Bethany remembers the smallest details about our schedules. It’s kind of her thing. Whenever she’s back in Kirkwall during her breaks, she likes to surprise us as at work with little things like this. ‘Yeah, I already took the batter out of the fridge. Fifty doughnuts worth in all its liquid-form glory just waiting to be baked.’

She laughs at that, then turns her attention towards the cake on the assembly counter.

‘It’s for a birthday party this evening. Can’t seem to figure out the flower placements though,’ I admit, taking a step beside her. ‘Had it been roses, it’d be easier, but the woman insisted that I used marigolds. Thankfully, Merrill had a fresh delivery this morning, else I’d be stuck crafting them from gum paste.’

My sister hums in reply, though, I don’t think she was really paying much attention to me. She seems deep in thought for a bit before a smile cracks on her face. ‘Can I try?’

‘Go ahead,’ I say holding the container of flowers for her and I watch her work for the next ten minutes.

 

‘Hmm, it’s missing something, don’t you think so?’ I’m still in a daze when she asks and Bethany resorts to waving her hand in front of my face.

‘What?’

‘Do you have anything green, or leafy that we can drape on each side of the cake?’ she’s more specific this time, then peaks into my coolers for something she can use.

‘I—yeah. I have a bunch of _sweet cicely_ leftover that I was going to give to Merrill to compost. Cooler on your left.’

Upon seeing the leaves, Bethany insists that they’re the right colour but mentions that they’re much too small to drape on anything. Luckily for her, I always have some royal icing handy. After a good fifteen minutes (half hour if it weren’t for her dainty hands) of gluing bits of fern-like leaves together, she drapes it on each side of the cake. The leaves look like a delicate shawl over eye-catching marigolds that look like blood oranges sitting atop the first layer. It looks as though as autumn had blossomed right on that cake.

‘Hmm… needs something else. Too _autumn-y_.  A bit more sunshine, maybe,’ she mutters to herself before raiding my cooler again. This time, she has two Bethany-palm-sized sunflowers excitedly on hand and wedges them confidently in-between the marigold arrangement. With a turn of her heel, she’s facing me with this expression of delight on her face that I can’t quite explain and there’s an ache in my chest.

There’s a fleeting moment of perfection when I look at her—like time came to a standstill to allow me this chance to see how much my baby sister looks so much like our Mother. The way she put a finger to her lip in thought, to circling the cake to see where she can place certain flowers—the resemblance is uncanny. She’s always been the baby, but here? Now, with me in my studio with all the colours behind her? It’s like Time finally caught up with her and showed me just how much she’s grown and matured.

‘Care to do the honours?’ I say and my voice almost cracks. I hand her the glittery gold ’30’ cake topper and Bethany sticks it right in the middle of the second, smaller tier on her tippy-toes. I gape the masterpiece. ‘It’s _perfect_. Thank you, Beth,’ I hug her, rocking back and forth a bit before we let go. I get a bit misty-eyed and she catches the look on my face.

‘Sorry, perfect cakes get to me sometimes,’ I cover with an excuse, then grab her arm so that I can wipe my eyes on her sleeve.

‘Garrett!!!’ she’s in fits of giggles now and I hoist her up effortlessly by the waist so that she can’t swat at me. When we finally compose ourselves, she helps me with a bit of the cleanup and offers to bring some of the flowers, stems, and leaves that I no longer have use for to Merrill for her compost. Just past seven, a man and his two sons arrive in a van and they take their cake away with thanks after paying me the rest of their deposit, completing the order.

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

‘Big brother, you know I love you, right? And Marian, and Carver,’ she says suddenly when we’re walking to the bus stop down the street.

I ruffle her hair. ‘Of course I do. And we take care of each other.’

‘Because we’re all we have left,’ she completes my sentence—our sentence. It’s the Hawke-Amell motto. _Family first, always._

‘What brought this up?’

‘I—no. It’s nothing. I just felt like saying it,’ she dodges the question with a smile, then squeezes my arm twice. ‘Ah, there’s my bus!’

‘Go! And don’t stay out too late!’ I holler after her as she sprints for her bus. Thankfully, the driver sees her and she makes it in safe, waving to me as it drives by.

‘Well, time to bake fifty doughnuts in less than four hours.’

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

I drop onto my bed when I reach home and pass out from exhaustion. Baking for a living is tough—you’re on your feet _a lot_ and your tastebuds get messed up from taste-testing so much. Not to mention the multiple cleanups that I have to do everyday. Hygiene is important. Plus, I can’t deal with cockroaches—I need Aveline for that.

My phone chimes, but it’s the bright screen that wakes me up. Carver’s arrived in the Anderfels for a transit flight to Nilfgaard. It’s two in the morning and I groan, getting up and reaching for my towel in the dark for a quick shower. It’s another long day at the studio tomorrow before I’m rewarded with an order-free week. When I walk past Bethany’s room, I see Siobhan’s collar hanging on the knob. _Good, she’s already home and fast asleep_. Siobhan usually sleeps with Carver, but she settles for Bethany when he’s not around. Before I even reach for the bathroom at the end of the hallway, a car drives by and its headlights illuminate the silhouette of my twin who’s sitting alone in the living room at the window-seat.

‘Mare?’ I call to her from upstairs and she turns towards me, raising a glass in hand.

 

‘Maker’s breath, Marian, it’s two in the morning. Did you just get home?’

She nods quietly, then I hear her sniffle. Pushing a few folders aside, I take a seat beside her and place a hand on her knee. The gesture makes her exhale a shaky breath and she doesn’t meet my gaze for a long time. It worries me seeing her in such a state, but I don’t question her, letting her take her time to answer all my unanswered curiosities when she’s ready. Three more cars pass before she sets the glass of whisky down on the windowsill.

‘Do you remember when Detective Emeric came to our home after… y’know. We were both eleven, and Bethany and Carver were seven,’ she asks, her voice is eerily calm and I nod, taking her smaller hand into mine.

‘Wynne answered the door. Beth and Carver were at school, and you were running a fever that morning. She tried to get both of us upstairs but you wouldn’t let go of my hand,’ I recount, and she squeezes my hand.

‘I wanted to hear it—for _us_ to hear it. Call it instinct, but I knew he came to tell us that he caught our parents’ murderer , even if it was after two years. His name was Quentin, but in the past year I learned that when the case was still open, they nicknamed him ‘Victor’. After Victor Frankenstein.’

My eyes widen. ‘Marian, what are yo—’

‘The girl in the square today, her eyes were missing—surgically removed, Garrett. And two months ago, there was a woman who went missing. She was found slumped and left to rot somewhere in Darktown with both hands removed and replaced with someone else’s entirely.’

My heart drops at what my sister is implying. No. That’s impossible. Detective Emeric said that there was enough evidence to put him away for good. That man would never live to see the light of day ever again in solitary confinement at Fort Drakon!

When Marian freaks out, I freak out. But I’m the older twin and I remind myself that I need to get back down first before I can help her. Tuning her ramblings out, I take two long, deep breaths, feeling my head clear as I exhale. I hold her arms gently and her voice is caught in her throat again. Then I pull her into one of my big, brotherly, bear hugs and we stay like this for a bit. Thunder rumbles in the clouds above. It sounds like the heartbeat in my ears.

I hold my sister tight and I think it’s the first time I’ve noticed that she’s as small as Bethany in my arms. Her heartbeat is against my chest, and her breathing syncs with mine after a while. I loosen my grip but she holds onto the hug anyway.

‘Aveline says I’m overreacting,’ she says, nuzzling her head into my shoulder.

‘She’s right, and she’s wrong. Just like you are. It might just be some sick coincidence and you’re overreacting like Aveline says, or... it really is him, which I doubt—’

Marian breaks the hug, holding me at arms length and I see the panic return to her eyes. ‘We can’t lose anymore family, Gare! I can’t—I don’t know if i’ll—‘

‘Let me finish,’ I cut her off. ‘Ask Varric to see if he can pull some strings—y’know, get someone to check in on the deranged nutcase before you come to hasty conclusions. If he’s really gone, then the Commissioner will know and I’ll be damned if Cassandra doesn’t catch him.’

Marian huffs, but doesn’t argue because she knows I’m making sense. She knocks back what’s left in her glass, then retrieves a photograph from one of her folders. It’s of Quentin. It’s strange, you’d think that serial killers would look like one—a scar here, a tattoo there—but Quentin looked like your average Kirkwaller who dressed decently, went to work in the morning, and back home in the evening.

‘I wanted to kill him, you know? When Detective Emeric came that day and told us that he would either he hanged or put away for life, I wanted that man dead. I was an eleven year old child thinking about slicing a man’s throat and watching him bleed out, just like he did our parents.’

I’m quiet, unsure of what to say. I knew she never had any closure after our parents were murdered, even if Detective Emeric did catch him in the end. I knew she gave up on the Maker and Andraste because they failed to protect the best people we knew—our parents. She was angry at the world for a really long time, but she channeled that anger into her studies and career.

Breaking my thoughts, she sighs and continues. ‘But you chose mercy for him, Garrett. You took to account that he had a mental illness. You, who was the same age as I was, who had been through the exact same thing as I did. You always were the kinder one. The better one. You got that from Dad,’ she smiles, raking my hair back. My siblings always told me how much of a carbon copy I am of our father. I never really noticed until I started growing my beard out.

I snort and stand, stretching. ‘Yeah, and you got Mum’s nasty temper and crude tongue. You and Carver, both.’

‘Hey!’ she punches me in the ribs and I almost double over. My sister is definitely ten times stronger than I am. She could probably take on Aveline in a fair fight.

‘Speaking of our parents, Bethany came over to the studio today. Helped me with a flower arrangement for an order I was stuck on.’

She gathers her folders and takes the empty glass by the windowsill and I follow her into the kitchen to make sure she actually washes the thing. ‘The marigolds?’

‘Yeah. I was watching her work—eyes glazed with passion, humming made-up tunes as she scrutinised different shades of the same colour. She... she looked just like Mum, y’know? When she was painting her portraits.’

‘Did you cry?’ she asks, leaning against the counter as she wipes it dry and I give her a look. My sister knows me too well.

Toying with the hair tie around my wrist, I try to recall what we were talking about. ‘I think she was trying to tell me something.’

‘Hmm, maybe she’s finally dating someone,’ Marian says nonchalantly. ‘You’re going to have to give the birds-and-the-bees-talk to her if she is. I already gave that one to Carver. I’m fresh out of sex-ed lessons.’

Poor Carver. He fell hard for a girl named Triss when he was eighteen. They dated for about six months before he found out she was just using him to get over her ex. She literally screamed _his_ name in ecstasy during their first (and only) night together. My little brother called it off, then she moved to Kovir. He was heartbroken for months. Marian called her a red-headed sea witch.

I groan and make a grab at her arm when she walks past me. ‘Are you sure I’m qualified? Seeing that I’m essentially on my way to becoming a thirty-year-old virgin.’

She cackles at my comment. ‘You of all people know that Wynne told us enough.’

I’m truly thankful that we’re having this conversation in the middle of the night in our very dark kitchen because I’m pretty sure my face has gone scarlet by now. ‘Yes, well, she sure did.’

 

There’s a knock on the bathroom door as I’m taking my much needed shower and I hear Marian’s voice over the running water. ‘Gare? You should know that the librarian called me about your card. He was trying to reach you but your number wasn’t in the system. He tried the twins too but apparently, no one answered but me. Said to come by the counter with your ID to get it.’

The bar of soap slips out of my hands. It’s been almost a week since I was at the library and I’ve completely forgotten about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Garrett's baking studio is based on a baker I follow on instagram! Jade does amazing artisan cakes and she's truly inspirational. You can find her on ivyandstonecakedesign @ Instagram :D
> 
> A huge huge thank you to my beta for helping me even though she caught a bug! Your comments always make me giggle (;w;)


	3. #Dragon4geDay: The Fourth of Cassus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kirkwall and the rest of Thedas prepare for their national holiday to celebrate and honour the greatest age of Thedosian history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is my dedicated contribution to Unofficial Dragon Age Day a.k.a #Dragon4geDay! It is set in the BakerFic universe where I attempt to mesh stories of old into a modern age for Thedas's unofficial national holiday. So sit back with a cookie, and enjoy the tale I've spun <3
> 
> And thank you thank you thank you to my lovely beta who helped me on such short notice

* * *

It’s well into the night when I’m almost done packing all the cookies. There are about a few thousands—I lost count at three—and surprisingly, nothing went wrong. Sure, the testing batch came out a little charred and I might have let another rest out for too long, but other than that? Five whole days of baking and decorating went by quite smoothly just in time for our national holiday. 

Baking the sugar cookies was the simplest task—they’re easy to make, cut with a circular cookie cutter, and they don’t take long to bake in the oven until their colour turns golden brown. It’s the process of icing and painting the cookies that’s literally backbreaking. Usually, I’d painstakingly pipe white royal icing onto each cookie, then wait for it to fully set before painting the design on. But because of time constraint, I just coat the cookies by dipping the top into a bowl of royal icing, then shake off the excess.

Armed with dark red gel food colouring, a bit of water, and a few food-safe paint brushes, I freehand the design onto the dried icing. I could’ve easily gotten a stencil, or some sort of stamping tool, but doing it old school adds a rustic touch to them. When those are done and dried, the completed cookies are packed in individual cookie bags before going into the air-tight plastic containers loaned by the community centre. I also have my friends and family to thank for coming into the studio during their free time to help me pack the cookies while I painstakingly continue my work in decorating hell. 

Just as I’m done putting away the last of my baking trays, I hear a rapping on the window and I see my sister waving enthusiastically at me with her car keys. ‘Are you done?!’ she yells, her voice muffled by the thick window and I give her a nod and my biggest smile. 

 

‘Is Isabela meeting us for the gathering tomorrow evening?’ I ask on the drive back home and Marian shakes her head. She makes a sharp turn and I can feel the wheels go up a nearby pavement before the car settles back onto the road. I subtly check that my seatbelt is secure. 

She sighs. ‘Bela’s on some remote island last I heard from her. The expedition’s taking them longer than expected because of bad weather.’

‘Maybe she’ll send you a postcard,’ I joke, and my sister still manages to punch my arm while keeping her eyes on the road. 

The family estate comes into view and I turn to my sister. ‘I guess it’ll just be the family again this year. Aveline’s in Orlais with Donnic, Merrill’s busy as one of the volunteers, even Varric’s got something to do tomorrow.’

‘Varric?’

I shrug. ‘He wouldn’t tell me. Says it’s a surprise.’

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

Every year on the fourth day of December—or Cassus, as they used to call it in ancient times—people all around Thedas take a day to go back to our roots, no matter what race or religion. We are refreshed and healed both spiritually, and emotionally as we listen and re-learn our histories that have shaped our world today. Each city designates areas where their people can gather and participate in the evening’s festive activities and events while awaiting the moon to reveal itself in the night sky. Some cities build high towers shaped to look like giant trees, or swords, only to set them ablaze come midnight. Others like Rivain, gather on boats and row out onto the vast ocean where they set floating lanterns free into the night sky. In short, tonight for us Thedosians, we honour the fallen of the ancient ages. Be it from the brutal wars and genocides, to sickness and famine and plague, to victims of outright murder. Tonight, we pray for the departed. 

 

‘We’ll see you both down at Sundermount, alright?’ Marian hugs the twins on her toes and I do the same when she releases them.

We wave them off and make our way to the studio as they head off to help our neighbour next door. We don’t know much about Cousland—only that he was a war veteran who lost his family in the war decades ago. He never married, and spends most of his days in his wheelchair out on his porch reading or writing in his journals. Marian and I bring food over sometimes, but the younger ones seemed to have bonded well with the quiet old man over the years. 

Here in Kirkwall, we take this holiday very seriously because of the history that our city has with the rest of Thedas. One of the biggest wars the nation has ever seen erupted in the heart of our hometown. Every Scholar and Templar were at each other’s throats for the years that followed, causing the loss of countless innocent lives. That’s why any true Kirkwaller today harbours a guilt that is not ours, as if it were our own. 

During the week, most of the shops here close before sundown, giving everyone participating ample time to make early arrangements and preparations. Some—like Bodahn and Sons—make enough food to go around, while others help to secure shipments of flowers, refreshments and snacks.

While Marian and I make our way towards Sundermount Nature Reserve on foot like everyone else, we’re greeted by someone from the guard every fifty meters. Sometimes when we pass one, we can hear the Commissioner’s—Cassandra—voice coming from their radio, reminding them to ensure the safety of the people. 

My sister switches the trolley she’s pulling to her other hand as we go uphill. ‘Urgh, why do we always have to walk to bloody Sundermount?’

I laugh, pulling my own that has more containers than hers without too much problem. The perks of being a big, burly man named Garrett. ‘It’s tradition, that’s why.’ While I agree that walking to Sundermount can be a pain in the arse because of the hills and long, bumpy paths, it’s a tradition that we keep to. Today is about keeping things simple, like how our ancestors once did hundreds of years ago. So as a rule of thumb, no cars. Besides, if everyone drove there, there wouldn’t be anywhere to park all their vehicles.

‘Tradition can go and bloody suck it,’ she whines just as Sandal sprints past us with a handmade wooden hybrid trolley-crate full of packed finger foods. 

‘ENCHANMENT!!!’ he yells at the top of his lungs, zooming uphill as fast as he can. Marian and I just stare at him in amusement. 

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

After dropping off my share of contribution in one of the tents (they’re the cookies I worked on for almost a week and I honestly never want to see another cookie for the next month), Marian and I search for a nice spot to get a good view of tonight’s show. I text Bethany while we meander through the crowd and Marian finds a spot on a small hill overlooking the lake, and we set the mats she’s collected for us down onto the cool grass. 

 

Bethy [8:45pm]

We’ve brought Pappy Cousland to the Veteran’s area! Duncan brought _so many_ pets from the shelter!

:D

Garrett [8:45pm]

!!!

We’re up on a small hill not far from a tent. You’ll see Merrill somewhere close by.

And please try to pry Carver off the Mabari(s). Strays are prone to follow him home and I can barely keep up with the appetite of the Hawke children plus one cat. 

 

It’s five minutes before nine when we’re finally four again and I see volunteers starting to hand out the donated food and refreshments, along with my packed cookies. I hear the couple behind me gush about the design, and it heartens me. I’ve been wanting to participate with the contributions for a long time now, and the design I've chosen was something I thought of for a whole year, taking inspiration from the moon we see on this day every year.

‘You should really put the studio’s name in those damn cookie bags,’ Marian nudges me while my brother distributes our share of snacks. 

‘I baked these in the name of charity, nothing more,’ I tell her, before stuffing one of Bodahn’s famous banana fritters into my mouth. Before Marian can say anything else, the lights dim, and Bethany covers our faces with her hand.

‘Shhh!!! It’s starting!’ she whispers excitedly. On cue, we all hear the quiet hiss of the hazers (Bethany taught me that, since she’s seen a lot of the stage equipment when she did ballet) emit a soft fog that slowly rolls out onto the lake. Next come the lights—big, bright, par-cans that are strategically stationed to shine towards the middle of the lake from below.

 _‘It all started with a blight,’_ a voice booms through the speakers, echoing throughout Sundermount and we are treated to visuals on the lake of about fifty mobile fountains installed in a single line, shooting continuous geysers as far as it can go, illuminated perfectly by the lights. A thrill runs up my spine, and goose bumps rise on the back of my neck.

‘That bastard!’ Marian and I both whisper in unison at the sound of Varric’s voice. He’s the guest storyteller this year!

 

There’s a different storyteller and story every year, but each one is always a mix of both fact, and fiction. Some believe that we used to live in times of the fae—where magic once existed and was not merely just alchemy, but something mythical and otherworldly altogether. Where humans lived amongst elves and demons and spirits. Where dragons freely roamed the skies of Thedas before extinction, and Titans and shadow-creatures lived underground in labyrinths of caves.

Varric’s voice hypnotises the whole of Sundermount into silence, and last minute stragglers hurry to squeeze themselves in spots they could find for so as not to miss a single second of the show. Our friend remains unseen as he spins his tale about a blight, wardens, and corrupted dragons called archdemons. About Kirkwall’s unrest and explosive civil war, and about giant holes spewing demons from the sky. All while a few talented individuals act it out using puppets, casting the shadows onto the illuminated geysers behind them.

‘Did they just… use the water as a huge screen to cast the shadows like an actual shadow play?!’ I whisper to Carver in awe but he doesn’t answer because he’s at a loss for words himself.

As Varric works his magic—weaving both history and fantasy together like a beautiful, tragic tapestry for all to see, feel, and hear—music slowly comes in, giving even more life to the whole performance. The light sound of a timpani comes first, then the strings and trombones—slow and steady building up the pitch before a lone woman dressed in white is revealed to us on the hill diagonally across from us where the orchestra is. The harmonious tune of the chantry’s choir fills all around us and we see the brothers and sisters holding single candles, harmonising in perfect pitch while they walk down a path towards the woman in white. An enchanting string of words from the ancient language of our nation—now only known by those in the chantry—is sung by the woman. A soft spotlight is shining on her now, and she carries each word with emotions beyond measure. There is despair, hope, and strength—strange, isn’t it? The old language sounds like a jumble of pretty syllables, but its weight is so apparent and can be felt on our shoulders and hearts. It’s perfect; the sound of our origins.

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

The story-portion of the event lasts for a good half-hour, then there’s a short intermission of fifteen minutes for people to stretch their legs, go to the washroom, or simply greet friends and neighbours they haven’t spent time with lately. There are other performances after—an elegant dance atop a platform on the lake that’s slightly submerged so it looks like the dancers are gliding on water, and a children’s sparkler show where kids from the orphanage put up a short performance while holding sparklers in their hands (accompanied and directed of course by some of the social workers).

I’m still in a daze after Varric’s epic tale and I can see that I’m not the only one. I hear excited discussions about the Hero’s archdemon battle, the Champion’s intervention of the Qunari uprising, and the Herald’s confrontation with the evil magister.

At the last intermission, Bethany and I help around in collecting rubbish with a few others to pass the time. Sundermount is one of the most sacred places in Kirkwall, and I’m glad that our fellows know not to leave trash lying around. Carver went to check on Cousland (and the shelter animals which Duncan had brought over to accompany the veterans), while my twin sister decides to have a peek at the festivities before it’s time to be seated again. I see a lot of familiar faces—Merrill handing out water bottles, as chipper as ever, Cullen coordinating with the guards (who are dressed less formally tonight) and directing people to the right places whenever he’s asked. I even spot the librarian—Fenris—offering leaflets about our special holiday that the Head Librarian designed.

After we're done, we head over to the makeshift booths to find Marian. She’s sat on one of the chairs made from recycled cardboard shaped and painted to look like tree stumps near a roaring bonfire where there are a group of people dressed as medieval citizens. My sister cheers with the crowd as they watch the ‘sword fight’ between two warriors—one decked in full Grey Warden armour, and another in a River Dane armour set. We spot Carver across the bonfire whooping and cheering away as well, and Bethany and I can’t help but laugh at the resemblance his enthusiasm has with Marian’s. We can’t help but join in the fun and when the Grey Warden defeats their adversary, a woman dressed as a bard (complete with a lute!) steps between them. She sings a tune about the Wardens of old and something about her strikes me as familiar.

‘Andraste’s knickers, that’s Maryden from Herald’s Rest, isn’t it?’ I say out loud and a woman beside me kindly confirms that it is. Quickly, I grab my phone from my pocket and snap a picture of her performing, then send it to Krem straight away. It’s a nice picture—Maryden at the front plucking her lute and singing with her eyes closed with gentle emotions. Both warriors stand behind her, swords held between each of them into the ground, along with the bonfire burning magnificently behind them.

Just as the song ends, we hear the hum of the chantry choir again, indicating that the time for the main event is near.

 

‘I always get the chills when they sing that hymn,’ Bethany says as we take our seats on the mats again. I hum in agreement, with the lyrics of _The Dawn Will Come_ still lingering in my mind.

Marian plops herself beside me, checking her phone. ’Really? Not me. I think I’ve heard it enough times in my lifetime.’

‘What’ve you got there Carver?’ I ask, and my brother hands me a leaflet looking both Marian and I.

’Our parents named the both of you after the Champion,’ he points at a paragraph with both our names. ‘It states that there are numerous anecdotes where these two names appeared the most in old reports for the Knight-Commander.’

My eyes widen with surprise. ‘But I thought we didn’t know their gender? That’s the reason why we have two statues standing in the Gallows, isn’t it?’

Marian folds her arms across her chest in thought. ‘Well, Merrill did mention that they often wore disguises. Who’s to say they didn’t fake their name as well?’

‘You have a point—look!’ I exclaim excitedly upon seeing a name that’s caught my eye. ‘There’s a _Ser Maurever Carver_ here as well! Says here that he was a Templar who helped the Champion’s father escape the scholar’s circle so that he could elope with the woman he loved!’ Maker, that sounds romantic. And dangerous.

The surprise on my brother’s face is priceless, then surprise breaks into a childish grin—something I never thought I’d see on Carver and it’s honestly adorable. Bethany looms over us to get a better look at the leaflet, hoping (I think) to find her name tied to a part of history as well. But alas, she found nothing of the sort and sits back down, disappointed. Carver wraps an arm around her small shoulders and Marian skims through the leaflet back and front one last time.

‘Hold on, there’s an Amell here,’ Marian informs us cheerfully but the small fact fails to wipe the pout off of our sister’s expression. Carver and I are probably mirroring a look of utter confusion now.

She folds the leaflet and tucks it into the back of her pants pocket. ‘Do you remember what mum used to call you?’

‘Just Bethany, right? Oh, sometimes it was Bethy, too. What has that got to do with _the_ Warden Amell? All of us carry her name, seeing that mum was from the direct line of the Amell fami—‘

‘—No,’ Carver interrupts, looking up at Bethany. ‘Whenever she was proud of you, she called you _Bethany Amell-Hawke._ She never did that with the rest of us—we were just Garrett, or Marian, or Carver to her,’ he rubs her shoulder and smiles at the memory of our mother’s voice. Trust Carver to remember such small details. ‘She must’ve saw something in you that reminded her of the stories of our brave Hero.’

 _Now,_ all of us Hawkes have smiles plastered on our faces and we break into fits of giggles and laughter.

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

It’s not long before the skies clear and the full moon is visible and at its highest. We’re lucky to be able to view it at night. Other cities like the Anderfels, or even the Imperium never get the chance to see this particular moon on this special day at midnight. Over there, they’re viewing the very same moon in broad daylight. Sort of like a reverse eclipse. Soon, gasps flutter and sweep through the crowd as excited Kirkwallers point towards the sky. A number of people start taking out their phones—snapping quick pictures for memory's sake.

Marian’s phone finally buzzes in her hand and she hastily taps the message. The screen lights up her face and I can immediately tell that Isabela finally got through because of the wide smile she has on now and I take a quick peek to see a photo attached, accompanied by winky-face emoji. It’s a photo of the sky wherever she is, and I can see the outline of the same moon we’re looking at right now. Before I can ask Marian of Isabela’s whereabouts, my own phone chimes and I see a text from Lavellan. I tap the message and am greeted with an attempted selfie with the moon gleaming in the background. Wherever she’s at, it’s night-time for her too and it warms my heart a little to know that my best friend is at least in the same time zone as I am tonight.

We put away our phones and watch as the moon slowly shifts in its orbit. Just like an eclipse, there’s a shadow that starts forming on the moon itself. The phenomenon happens quickly—but not in a blink of an eye. No one really knows why, or how this even happens so accurately year after year, so Thedosians have just kind of gone with it without really asking too many questions. It’s like… it’s supposed to be a part of us. As though history as we know it, and the modern day that we live in now is one and the same just for a brief moment when the moon and the sun are aligned perfectly.

Finally, the shadow is complete, revealing a dragon-shaped shadow contrasting against the beautiful face of the fullest moon of the month—just like the design on my cookies. Varric says that if you squint, you can probably see it glow a little red.

Then silence grips us all as we wait.

And it comes—roaring into the night as though commanding us all. No one knows what creature it is, or how it even knows _when_ to roar. A lot of people think it’s just pure coincidence. But a lot of other people think that when the sun, moon and Earth align, so does the nine realms—opening a brief path across the veils and worlds that transcends through time and space. Personally? I think it sounds _exactly_ like a dragon.

It roars again—louder, and much clearer this time, and all of us drop our heads in silent prayer for the fallen and departed.

Tonight is the day we celebrate the most important age in Thedosian history. The age that changed the lives of millions forever.

Tonight, we celebrate and honour the Dragon Age.

* * *

 


	4. Friendship +10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one spy movie that Hawke watched some years ago lands him into a bit of a predicament. And that predicament scores him some friendship points with a newfound friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a librarian, I can 100% confirm that such squabbles do actually happen. They are hilarious as they are ridiculous.

* * *

Red is the family colour—it always has been since I could remember. While most parents (especially those with twins) like to dress their children up in matching clothes, our dress-code was much simpler: have something red thrown into the mix. For me, it’s usually a shirt or the bracelet I wear on my wrist that I made when I was nine. For Bethany it’s the silken scarf she has around her neck, or tied into an elegant bow to one of her bags. For work purposes, my brother is decked in boring formal wear from head to toe, so he’s opted for a red phone case. Though, the design and shade changes from time to time. Marian’s the easiest—she doesn’t need to wear anything red because of the birthmark that she has across the bridge of her nose. It’s reddish, I suppose, but Marian says it doesn’t count. So, she’s decided on her red shoelaces whenever she has her sneakers on, a dark rouge lipstick, or… her interesting choice of undergarments (we know since we take turns to do the laundry).

The tradition has somehow spread to our closest friends, too. Varric carries a red ink pen with him at all times, and Aveline fashions a plaited headband to keep her wig from moving too much when she’s out chasing criminals.

That’s how you know they’re family.

 

Unfortunately, my stray thoughts have caused me to drop a stop too early. Now I have to walk the rest of the way to the library before locking myself in the studio for the rest of the day. Thankfully though, being your own boss has its perks—tardiness will never be an issue.

There’s a bit of a commotion when I arrive—a young girl seems to be manning the counter alone with a line snaking out of the queue, and disgruntled patrons are hovering around the borrowing stations and payment kiosks without actually doing anything. Just grumbling about in complaint.

‘Hey, sorry, but what’s going on?’ I tap the shoulder of a man who doesn’t seem too bothered about the situation.

He looks up from his phone to answer me. ‘Power surge from last night’s storm. Bit of lightning too, didn’t you hear it?’

‘Uh, no. Must’ve slept through it. Had a bit of a busy week,’ I admit, scratching my beard awkwardly. Maybe my acquired skillset is sleeping. That’s probably it. Leave it to Garrett Hawke to sleep through a thunderstorm.

Shrugging, the man goes back to tapping on his phone and I walk around for a bit in search of Fenris, the librarian from the other day. There’s a shout, then a bang, and everyone’s attention snaps towards the sound of two people arguing over a copy of the Kirkwall Times. I never thought the day would come when I have to bear witness the sight of two grown men—well into their sixties—fight over a _newspaper_. The damage was two chairs, a ripped shirt, a missing jandal, and a toupee flying off one of their heads. Poor Fenris is in the middle of  the squabble, trying his best to calm both sides.

‘I do not care what you have to do, but I expect power to be back within the next half-hour!!! There are no lights, my systems are down, no air-conditioning—do you expect me to _conjure_ electricity at the snap of my fingers? Y ou must have a backup generator _somewhere_!’ I hear the head librarian lose her temper at one of the contractors near the counter.

The shorter man pockets his little device into his front pouch. ‘Ma’am, trust me, if our backup generators were working, you’d at _least_ have air-conditioning. Power’s been out all morning in Hightown and it looks like it’s gonna stay down all afternoon too.’

My heart skips at that. No electricity means…

My coolers.

**_MY CAKES._ **

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

It’s warm—extremely and terribly warm in my studio that I lose all ability to think straight. I’m not the kind of person who has the WiFi turned on first thing in the morning (I only use WiFi for two things: Netflix and Spotify), and both my sisters left early this morning so they could have breakfast outside together. Me? I practically dashed out of the house after getting dressed, so no one’s even looked into the fridge to notice anything. My phone chimes, and it’s Marian.

 

Sestra [2:46pm]

The power’s WHAT?!

Maferath’s dusty ball sacks, is _that_ why my phone didn’t charge?!

(I’m using Aveline’s portable charger on the rapid)

 

Shit. My phone probably didn’t charge either. I take a look at the on-screen battery and it’s now in the amber zone.

 

Sestra [2.48pm]

You just checked your battery percentage, didn’t you?

Don’t reply me. And bring down your screen’s brightness for once.

It’ll help with your battery life.

May Andraste preserve you in this desperate time, Brother :>

 

Even in my time of crisis, my sister manages to make me laugh. Just for a moment, though. I hastily call Varric—who answers his phone sleepily—to give him the rundown of my predicament and he’s silent for about a minute—which is good! I can almost hear all the gears ticking in that brilliant mind of his.

 _‘How many cakes do you have, Hawke?’_ I hear him ask, then yawn. He must’ve worked a graveyard shift.

‘Five—but all of them have varying tiers. Plus,I have fifty doughnuts, and _a lot_ of ganache.’

He clicks his tongue. Not good. _‘Daisy’s cooler is too small. Bodahn’s  is out of question, and the only other place I know that can fit everything is the coroner’s morgue.’_

I drop onto my sofa, defeated. ‘Yeah, that’s going to be a hard ‘no’ from me, V. But thanks for the offer.’

I hear a jangle of keys at his end and I feel terrible for disturbing his rest. I’m just not good with stressful situations and get extremely panicky! _‘What about the shop?’_

His suggestion catches me off-guard and I immediately sit up-right. ‘I… Varric the shop’s not been used since my parents—there’s no power there either!’

My friend sighs, and I hear him get into the lift (the hazardous sound it makes when the doors are closing are unmistakable).  _‘Look, your Father’s shop sits on the border between Hightown and the Gallows, so it runs on power from the lower side of Kirkwall—hydroelectricity, from the old days. Just get yourself and the cakes to the shop and let me take care of the rest.'_

‘Okay, but how are you going to do that? Varric is this even _legal_?’ my voice drops into a whisper even though there’s no one else around. I have a justified paranoia about being watched by the feds. It was in a documentary.

Varric laughs, and I hear the beep of his car—I mean, _Bianca_.  _‘Relax, Chuckles. Let’s just say I know a few people who still owe me a few favours.’_

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

The Floristry was my father’s non-human child. He studied botany in college and decided _not_ to become a botanist the moment he graduated. During one of his trips on his years off, he met mother and  they fell madly in love.

She was sitting on a row boat in the middle of a lake alone and when my father tried to rescue her, she just held up her sketchpad and insisted that she was most definitely _not_ a damsel in distress. My father often mentioned how her art inspired him to  start the floristry—how she was like a blooming rose in a field of dull forest greenery. She added colour to his life, and he grounded her evenly so. The shop was their project in hopes that my mother’s parents would accept him if they saw how hard he worked (they were high-class socialites, and he was just an ordinary Fereldan with no title to his name). Alas, our grandparents objected their marriage and they eloped.

 

As I turn the key, I can feel my heartbeat in my ears. The shop is exactly how we left it—there’s a wooden picnic table in the center which once displayed all sorts of succulents and mini terrariums, the walls are still adorned with vines and flowers that my mother made by hand with sisal rope and all sorts of other leftover craft she had with her. All of it was painted by hand, too. Each and every leaf and petal, with love in equal measure.

‘Try flipping the switch, Hawke. That’s how lights work.’ I spin around and see Varric coming into the shop. Bianca is parked across the street.

‘Are you sure this is _legal_?’ I repeat my question in a whisper , poking my head outside for a quick glance. Good, at least he wasn’t followed. I’m paranoid because we’ve not paid to have power running in the floristry for _years_ , and if I know Varric, he’ll pay someone to tap power into the shop from somewhere. Illegally.

He rolls his eyes wordlessly at me as I walk over to the counter where the switches are and flip all three of them in one go. Just like how I used to do when I was a kid.

Not all the lights come on—a few spotlights have blown but that’s expected after years without maintenance. What surprised me are the coolers—all four of them coming to life with a flip of a switch. It takes them awhile—about fifteen minutes—to fully chill but other than that, they’re all working fine.

Varric gives me a pat on the arm from across the counter and I see a wistful expression on him. I swallow the lump in my throat and smile, assuring him that I’m alright—which I am, I think.

‘Sorry, it’s a bit weird being back here after so long,’ I admit, trying not to make eye-contact with him.

‘Sunshine did a good job. One can tell that she’s been here recently,’ he comments, swiping the counter with a finger. There isn’t a spec of dust present and I wonder if she’s been in here this week.

 

Bethany was the closest to our father and she spent a lot of time at the shop the year our parents were murdered. He called her his ‘little consultant’ and my little sister had a knack for getting people to open up to her. Then, when the customers weren’t looking, she’d pick out a succulent and armed with a red marker, she’d scribble (and try to spell) out an emotion she felt from them from their conversation. If it was a positive emotion, Bethany would tell them that the succulent represents it and that if they took great care of it, those emotions would grow beautifully. If they were negative, then her advice would be to care for it until those very emotions eventually blossomed.

‘She was out yesterday, so probably after she her ballet lessons—Tamra was sick,’ I say as I pull my man-bun free and retie it. Maker, I feel extra greasy today.

‘The kiddos do love her.’

‘Varric, _everyone_ loves her. She’s the only Hawke who inherited  my father’s people-skills,’ I admit with a laugh just as my phone chimes. It’s a text from Merrill!

 

Sunshine Daisies Butter Mellow [4:20pm]

Varric told me what happened!1

I shifted things around and made space in my cooler if you need it!

I know the cakes probably won’t fit but I’m sure the doughnuts will! And the ganache. Cream? :o

Can I have some extras, please Hawke? I’ve got a pot of earl grey tea with a hint of gunpowder brewing and it’ll go so well with the doughnuts!

I try not to seem concerned that Merrill has tea laced with gunpowder and turn my attention to the person responsible for contacting her in the first place. ‘Varric when did you—‘

I catch the smirk on his face, and he smoothly pockets his phone into his jacket. ‘After I called in my favour. C’mon, Sunshine’s on her way to the studio to help. I’ll drop you off, then drive her to Daisy’s shop.’

Varric Tethras; writer, master storyteller, forensics admin, blackmarket enthusiast. And most importantly? The friend who always has my back.

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

Three hours later, the three of us have saved five whole containers of various ganache, six cartons of unopened heavy cream, three full containers of doughnuts, and two multi-tiered cakes. Unfortunately, the remaining two cakes have varying heights and another is already assembled so I didn’t want to risk ferrying it in the car. Bethany’s checking with the community centre to see if they can accommodate my assembled cake that’s supposed to go out in an hour and have the client pick it up there instead. I’m back at the studio trying to catch my breath after those last few cakes before going another trip. Curse the floristry for being uphill!

My phone chimes again and it’s my sister.

 

Beth [7:40pm]

Good news!! Isolde says that community centre’ll hold the cake for you—but it has to be in the dance studio because the kitchen’s full. I’ll have the air-conditioning on at full blast for you!

 

‘Maker I do love you little sister,’ I breathe a sigh of relief and give her a quick call. When she answers, I hear her laughing and a car door shuts. _‘We’ll meet you in ten minutes to push the cake all the way to the community centre!'_

‘Listen, Beth. I’ll disable the security lock for you at the studio so you’ll just need to use the key, alright? I need to wheel another cake up to the shop now. I think part of the ganache is starting to melt in this blasted heat,’ I tell her and inspect the cake in question to confirm my suspicions.

_‘Are you sure you should be toying with the security system? Carver’s not in town until Monday,’_ she tells me with a hint of worry in her voice.

‘I’ll be fine, besides, it’s not like I’m doing anything to the system,’ I assure her, thinking of a scene I once saw in a movie.

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

It’s nine by the time I wheel the last of my cakes from the studio to the shop and Maker I am _exhauste_ _d_. I aske d Bethany to head back home after the client collected their cake, and called Marian to splurge on dinner since neither of us were in a state to cook. Nothing in the fridge would still be edible by now, too. My phone chimes and the screen lights up the shop entirely (I decided to keep the lights to a minimum at the shop in case people start to question). I highly doubt whatever favour Varric’s called in is _entirely_ legal.

 

Varric [9:05pm]

A little bird’s told me that power’s restored throughout Hightown ;)

 

I half-groan because it means that my day is far from over, then promptly lock up the shop and jog home to borrow Marian’s car.

 

‘You should hire an assistant,’ she greets me at the front of our estate, yawning as she tosses the keys at me. ‘D’you need my help?’

I shake my head as I get in and start the engine. ‘No, you’re tired from your trip and I just need to get the doughnuts and ganache. You should stay home and accompany Beth—she’s leaving next week, isn’t she?’

Marian folds her arms and shifts her weight to one side. ‘Hm, you’re right. Plus I don’t want her to be alone in the house. Not that I don’t trust Siobhan, that is,’ she says with a giggle and I lean back into the seat, exhausted. My back aches, my feet are sore, and my calves hurt from going up and down the hill wheeling two kilos worth of cakes at a time. This is probably the first time today that I got to properly catch my breath.

‘How was Orlais?’ I ask her. After today, all I want to do is _not_ talk about cakes and baking.

‘Still as schmuck as ever,’ she informs with a dramatic eye-roll and leans against her car. ‘But it was good to see my therapist again. Aveline even surprised Donnic at his precinct. You should’ve seen the look on his face.’

I push the key into the ignition and the car hums to life. ‘Did she get you to throw knives at dummies again?’

My sister shrugs. ‘Unfortunately no, but there was some delicious tea involved. You should come to one of our sessions, Gare. She’s helped me a lot despite the lack of knife-throwing lately.’

I give her the same weary smile I do every time she asks me that and Marian sighs, then wraps her arms around my neck to give me a hug. I’m told that I give great hugs, but I beg to differ. Marian gives the _best_ hugs—she does this thing where she places her hand on the back of your head and I swear, it’s exactly what our mother used to do.

‘Get some sleep—if not at home, then at the studio. Aveline didn’t have those special screens fitted to your windows for nothing,’ my sister nags as she releases me and attempts to fix the madness that is my hair.

Her comment earns me a laugh—she thinks I’m unaware of her late nights going through case after case. ‘Pot calling kettle black! Go to bed early for once. Varric’s working a graveyard again tonight and I’ll call him if I need anything.’ I tell her before shutting the door and she gives me a wave as I drive off.

 

By Andraste’s grace, power had indeed been fully restored in Hightown and I go through some emails on my iPad while waiting for the air-conditioning and my coolers to kick in. The doughnuts and containers of ganache are in the safety of Marian’s car so that they remain cool until I transfer them into the studio. There’re replies from my new clients—generic pricing inquiries, spam, discount deals...

And a single sad-face emoji email from Lavellan. She must’ve called me some time today in my time of crisis. I type in a quick reply with promise that I’ll call her soon and hit send just before the iPad dies. My bones pop and crack as I stretch on my Thinking Stool, readying myself for hours of decorating without Netflix and the glass door of the studio catches my attention.

‘I should probably put the wires back in place now that the electricity’s back on,’ I say to no one in particular. I start prying open a metal compartment of my door open with a butter knife. There’s a series of harmlessly loose wires which I pulled out earlier this afternoon and I pop them into their rightful place before setting back the lid. I hear a beep, then a lock—an indication that my security system is back on. Ha! I’m not useless with technology after all! I feel giddy with glee for a fleeting moment until I actually try opening the door.

It’s locked.

I reach for my phone that’s supposed to be in the back pocket of my jeans, then I remember that I’ve left it charging at the shop _with the iPad charger._ Holyshit.

I’m actually locked inside my own studio, and no one can save me.

Pacing around the studio for a few minutes, I rationalise that I probably have just enough ingredients for fifty more doughnuts and fresh ganache. Then I take one look at the car parked outside and I remember that all my heavy cream for the ganache is at Merrill’s and I just... slump to the floor in defeat, back against the door. My whole body is heavy with weariness and I contemplate just lying on the floor, closing my eyes, and praying that today was just some horrible nightmare that’ll leave nothing more than a bitter taste in my mouth when I wake.

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

Ironically, I must’ve fallen asleep at some point because I’m jolted awake by someone rapping on my glass door. I turn around groggily and I’m met with a familiar face, along with a shock of ashen hair.

‘Ah, you’re awake,’ I hear him say with a knuckle still resting on the glass.

‘The Librarian—Fenris?’

He squints (I should really get the porch light fixed). ‘Hawke? Are you alright? I was on my way home when I saw someone slumped against the door from across the street. I admit that did not expect it to be you,’ he says with a look of concern as I stand.

‘Yes—I mean, not entirely. Physically I’m fine. Just extremely exhausted.’ He catches my sigh and nods.

‘Long day?’

‘You don’t even know the half of it,’ I tell him, not knowing if I want to laugh or cry. Both, probably. A truck drives by and I can feel my blood freeze over. ‘Wait, the car!’

Fenris jangles Marian’s keys at me (I know they’re hers because of the pepper spray keyring she has attached to them), then pockets the keys into the safety of his backpack. ‘You shouldn’t leave your keys in your car even if it _is_ Hightown, Hawke.’ Relief washes over me instantly. What a lifesaver. I think I tend to attract their brand of people, not that I’m complaining.

‘What happened?’

‘My security system locked me from the inside and there are fifty doughnuts in that car that needs to go out _tomorrow_ , sprinkles and all,’ I explain, trying to rub the weariness out of my eyes.

His brow arches inquisitively. ‘That is indeed a predicament. Would you like me to shatter the glass?’ he offers with certainty clear in his voice and sets his backpack to the side of the steps.

I almost snort at his offer, but stifle it. _Nothing_ gets through this glass. Everyone’s tried.  ‘As much as that flatters me, the glass is shatterproof I’m afraid.’ I knock on the window, allowing him to hear the thickness it has in its layers.

‘Shatterproof? For a bakery?’ He sounds a lot like Isabela when I told her the same thing and I cringe at the word.

‘Hey! _Artisan_ baking studio thank you very much.’ My comment earns me an eye-roll and Fenris pushes his glasses up onto his head. It makes his hair poke out  at funny angles. 

He shifts to lean against my door on his side so that I can see the phone in his hand. ‘I’d offer to call someone for you but I’m afraid my phone is without power.’

‘Long day?’

His laugh has a tinge of sarcasm to it and I find that comforting for some reason. ‘You don’t know the half of it.’

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

Back in the day, the library closed by sundown. Now? It’s open from ten in the morning until nine at night _and_ they open on weekends. It’s madness! I told Fenris to petition to the Viscount because those hours are ridiculous and should be classified as slavery. He laughed it off and mentioned something about shift work. Apparently being a librarian is his first full-time job, and I can tell that he likes it.

It’s strange, this. Just a few weeks ago I was an overgrown man-child with an irrational fear of librarians. Now I’m actually _talking_ to one about mundane things like work, bills, and shitty customers. Most times I’m so caught up with my work, or family , or small circle of friends that I forget people with actual job titles also have a life _outside_ of work. Like Fenris, or Cullen. Even the Commissioner. I wonder what Varric does besides work. He’s always either at the precinct doing admin work, the coroner’s mortuary, or sat somewhere elbow deep in ink and paper.

About two hours have passed since my tragic lock-in and despite me telling Fenris that my sister would probably send a search party for her car (not me) if it wasn’t parked outside our estate come morning, he’s voluntarily decided to keep me company.

‘That’s my brother, Carver,’ I push the picture frame onto the glass so that Fenris can have a better look. ‘He’s away on a business trip now with his boss. Works at some IT company that does all sorts of things.’

‘So you’re a family of two sets of fraternal twins?’ Fenris inspects the picture. It’s a fairly recent one of the four of us when we drove all the way up to Rivain for a family trip two summers ago. Marian closed a big case she worked in partnership with the City Guard, and Carver just received his letter about completing his diploma. It was a fun trip—we even brought Siobhan along and she discovered that she liked the beach. A little too much, we think.

‘Yup. I think it comes from my mother’s side of the family. Our father’s side usually only ever has one child per family,’ I pull the frame back and stretch so that it drops safely onto the sofa. ‘What about you? Any siblings?’

‘A sister, but we were separated when our mother passed. The social worker mixed up our papers and we were sent to different orphanages,’ he explains with a shrug like he’s said it a thousand times.

‘Yikes. No foster parents?’

Fenris shakes his head, then proceeds to wipe his glasses with his sleeve. ‘I was never adopted. When I finally reached the legal age, I left. I have been on my own ever since.’

‘Jeez, I’m sorry, Fenris. I shouldn’t have asked.’ I honestly don’t know what to say. We might both be orphaned as kids, but at least I had my siblings. Now I feel terrible for prying.

‘Not many care to, but I’m glad that you did. I do not have many opportunities to discuss such matters. It’s nice. In a way.’ He sets his glasses back on his nose and adjusts his hair a little.

‘Where did you go after?’ I ask, hoping to steer the conversation into a more cheerful tone. At the very least I can throw in an embarrassing story about Marian, or Carver to lighten the mood.

‘I traveled. I was given a decent amount upon my departure and I bought a sturdy backpack and some necessities. Then went around Thedas on foot,’ he tells me, shifting his leg to stop it from cramping I suppose. We’ve been sitting on the floor for hours now. ‘I worked on a fishing port in Rivain, stayed in Starkhaven for a time and did some charity work, then wandered around Ferelden and worked on farms most of my time there.’

‘Sounds like you had a few interesting years on the road. How’d you end up living in our shitty city anyway?’

He yawns, then stretches a bit before answering. The yawn is infectious and it makes me yawn as well. ‘Chance, I suppose. I was looking at an advertisement just outside the library and the Head Librarian asked of my interest. I had no qualifications, nor was I properly dressed, but she thought me suitable for the job. So here I am, having a conversation with a patron past twelve in the morning, who had so brilliantly locked himself inside his own studio because he saw a spy movie. Once.’

That makes me laugh and I don’t know what hurts my ego more: my stupidity, or the fact that Fenris pointed it out.

‘And here you are.’ As I say that, the power goes off again—not just in the studio, but the whole street.

‘Hawke,’ Fenris calls me. ‘Do you think you can undo the your security system again?’

 

I quite literally jump to my feet and run to grab my trusty butter knife, pop open the metal compartment so that I can pull out the wires again. The security system that Carver helped to set up for me is a little odd—there’s a physical lock outside that requires a key, and a card scanner that unlocks the digital ones. When I get in, I have to close the door and hear it lock again. After that’s done, I key in the six-digit code so that it remains open throughout the day until I close, then I do the reverse. The inside lock is like a master-lock, and that’s the one I’ve tampered with. The whole thing was a shark-tank gig and the studio was a guinea pig of sorts for one of their employees—Zevran, I think. He was fired.

‘Sweet holy Andraste, I’m free!!!’ I scream when I open the door. Big, burly, greasy Garrett Hawke with the messy man-bun. Attractive, I know. I’m truly nature’s masterpiece.

Thankfully my newfound friend seems to be more amused than repulsed at my state. ‘I’m pleased that you are. Now you can head home and get some rest.’

‘Home?’ I say too loudly. It must be the adrenaline kicking in. ‘Fenris, I have _fifty_ doughnuts to decorate and individually pack. There’s no way I’m leaving the studio until daybreak,’ I tell him, then my focus shifts to the streets again and we watch them light up section by section until my studio is filled with blinding light again.

Fenris considers for a moment, then places his bag down onto the sofa and begins rolling up his sleeves. ‘Then we had better get started.’

‘We?’ I utter and I don’t know what surprises me more—what he just said, or the fact that he has these _brilliant_ tattoos on his arms.

‘ _We_ —plural form of _I_ , Hawke. We might have just met but even I am not so heartless as to leave you alone in the dead of the night with the nightmare of unglazed doughnuts.’ He pushes his glasses up again and I think he’s doing that to keep his hair from getting in his way.

I set my apron down on the counter. ‘Though I appreciate the thought, you really don’t have to. You’ve had a tiring day yourself.’

‘It is no trouble. Besides, after what just happened, who knows what kind of predicament you’ll get yourself in with fifty doughnuts,’ Fenris comments so nonchalantly while picking up the frame I’ve left on the sofa. He inspects the photo one last time before handing it to me.

‘Okay now you’re beginning to sound _exactly_ like my friends. Why is it that no one has any confidence in my capabilities anymore??’ I whine , setting the frame back on the little shelf I have—just beside the picture of my parents.

 

The night goes by quickly as I get to work—my focus shifts into the zone again and my feel myself easing back into my comfort levels of being back in control. While Fenris helps me break apart my blocks of ganache, I gather all the decorative bits for the order.

Today’s design has a monochromatic palette—doughnuts with the tops generously coated in a light-grey ganache, with a sprinkle of decorations of both white and black chocolate rice on one side. On my instructions, Fenris helps me to place a few tiny white decorative stars to his discretion while I busy myself laying bits of edible silver foils here and there to make them look like abstract pieces of art.

‘Hmm, something’s missing,’ I muse to myself, taking a step back and inspecting the full complete batch. There are trays and trays of our work in every available space of the studio.

‘A bit too monochrome, perhaps?’ he suggests, and something about him catches my eye. It’s a small detail, but it makes all the difference to me and I point it out.

Fenris catches himself in the blurry reflection on the fridge. ‘Ah, yes. We had a craft programme with the children today—why are you looking at me like that?’

‘Don’t move!’ I fly to where my drawers of decorative sprinkles are and scan through my shades of blue until I find the one that matches the paint on his hair—dark electric blue. Then without a word, I pour about a tablespoons full into two small bowls and hand one of them to him.

‘Here, just a bit on each doughnut will do the trick!’ I instruct him and excitedly begin to sprinkle them onto my batch. Fenris observes for a moment, then turns back to his batch and does the same. Working wordlessly in sync, we’re done in ten minutes tops and the first half of the completed batch has already set.

‘Remarkable,’ Fenris comments, inspecting the pastry that he has on hand before packing it into a single transparent plastic cookie-bag and seals it.

‘The blue makes all the difference, doesn’t it?’ I say, placing some of the sealed bags into the container they came in.

‘And you got that all from paint in my hair?’ he asks, packing another doughnut.

I don’t know why, but the comment made me feel a bit... wistful. I look down at my hands, smiling. ‘What do you know, maybe I got something from my mother after all.’

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

‘This has certainly been an interesting night,’ Fenris hands me the can we’d been sharing and I take another gulp. We’re sitting on the sofa, taking a break from decorating hell.

I hand him back the can and watch as he knocks back the last of the coke. ‘Thank you—for accompanying me and helping. You really didn’t have to.’

He shrugs and crushes the can with a hand, then throws it perfectly into the bin that’s across the studio. ‘It’s not like I was going to do anything when I got home.’

I raise an eyebrow, nodding towards his bag where I can see the top of a wine bottle sticking out.

‘Okay, I was going to drink a bottle of wine and pass out,’ Fenris admits with a huff. I laugh, and stand to stretch. Fenris yawns again. Maker, it’s probably past seven by now.

‘Where’re you headed? C’mon, I’ll give you a lift. It’s the least I can do,’ I ask, trailing after him through the door.

‘My apartment is on the other side of Hightown, but I am actually going to work.’

I nearly drop the keys while I try to lock up. Did he really just help me _the whole nigh_ _t_ even though he has work the following morning?!

Fenris holds up a hand before I can say anything and assures me that the weekend shift (though hectic) is relatively shorter. Thankfully, he takes up my offer and I ferry him to work but I still feel bad after I leave. So, I decide to make the delivery later a quick one after going back home to wash up and return the car.

 

The library seems relatively busier on Saturday—the part-timer is attending to a patron at the payment kiosk, a handful of shelvers push books by the trollies in and out of a workroom nearby, and there’re just numerous patrons doing their own thing. A handful of them are using the computers (Maker, there’re at least six on this floor alone!), and some are reading newspapers and browsing digital bulletin boards. Suddenly there’s a swarm of people who walk past me and head up the escalator with books, laptops and whatnot.

I see the notice sitting nicely on an easel stand outside the programme zone indicating its closure for the day. Inside, I spot Fenris busy giving out instructions to the staff. He turns briefly and I wave him over.

 

‘Hawke?’ Somehow, Fenris always pairs my name with a question mark at the end. I find that amusing.

‘Thought you might need some caffeine. Oh, and I got you some sweet potatoes,’ I tell him, holding up a Kirkwall Coffee carrier.

He takes the bag with an amused look on his face. ‘While I appreciate the coffee, do I want to know about the potatoes...?’

I shake my head. ‘Don’t ask. The barista said she had plenty.’

‘Hm, I could get used to this,’ he says, taking a whiff out of the bag. The smile he has is infectious and I mirror it with my own.

‘Y’know, younger me would’ve liked to know that librarians could tell jokes.’

He takes another look at the programme zone before walking back towards the service counter near the entrance and I follow him. ‘We did not use to. It is a recently acquired skillset.’

I almost let out a bellow of a laugh. Almost. ‘See, now I can’t even tell if you’re joking or being serious.’

Fenris sets the bag down on the counter behind him and reaches for a drawer near the computer. ‘You will probably never know.’

Then he frowns.

‘What’s wrong?’ I resist the urge to peek over the counter (Merrill tells me it annoys the hell out of her, and she’s _never_ easily irritated ).

‘My apologies. It seems that a colleague has carelessly left out an open stamp and it was placed nicely on your card. It left a red mark across your name,’ he informs me, retrieving it from the drawer and holding it out for me to see.

The card in question has my name—HAWKE—printed in uppercase letters above a barcode and membership number. Across my name, is indeed a red mark and it makes me think about Marian’s birthmark.

My funny expression confuses Fenris, I can tell. I take the card anyway and place it in the breast pocket of my shirt where it sits a little funny because apparently these pockets were designed for aesthetic purposes. Fenris asks again if I’m truly alright with the ruined card and I grin. I feel a bit lighter for some reason, like the madness of yesterday has melted away.

‘You know what? It’s perfect.’

* * *

 


	5. Bittersweet Tartes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it a tarte, or a pie? Only the Baker of Kirkwall knows. But even the mighty Baker isn't a match for the news a certain Librarian brings to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back and entering Phase Two of the story! I appreciate all of you for your kind patience! And massive, endless thanks to CuriousThimble for her awesome beta skills! Her comments, suggestions, and thoughts was the extra sugar needed to make this chapter even better and she deserves all the tartes throughout Thedas <33333

* * *

 28th September, Monday.

‘Hawke.’

‘I’m not—‘

‘You’re doing it _again_ ,’ Fenris scolds me. His voice is thankfully more nonchalant than annoyed.

‘I’m not!’ I exclaim defensively, dropping the piece of clothing where I found it: on the floor. Fenris doesn’t turn around and continues to rummage through his small wardrobe for something but I can literally _feel_ his eye-roll. It’s _that_ powerful. No one should have that kind power if you ask me. Aveline, maybe, but definitely not anyone else.

I drop into the nearby computer chair in defeat and swivel around in it. It doesn’t take me long before I’m dizzy and have to stop. ‘Look, I can’t help it. You of all people know that. How long have you known me now? 

The upper half of his body finally emerges from the depths of _Narnia_ and Fenris makes his way into the bathroom. His sleeping clothes comes flying out of the door, landing in the narrow hallway before I can hear him turn on the shower. I’m barely through four pages of the comic book I’ve borrowed and Fenris is already done. I get through another three pages to find that Batman’s planning on going against the Court of Owls alone and he’s done drying his hair as well.

‘Ten months, three weeks, and five days, _’_ he finally answers my question.

He knows that _exactly_ because I send him a big shortbread cookie with the words _Happy xx Month Frienniversary!_ in a cursive font with red royal icing. It’s a wonder how Fenris is still friends with me. When Aveline finally had enough of my Friennivesary cookies, she stormed into the studio with the cookie in hand, stared at me as she broke it into four equal pieces, and dunked it into my tea. After it was soggy, she mixed it calmly and made me drink it. It was Marian’s idea.

I move around the room on the Fenris-sized computer chair, picking up clothes he’s left around and chuck it into the unused laundry basket I got for him some months back. Now he’s leaning by the bathroom door in a fresh grey shirt and brushing his teeth, mumbling something before disappearing back into the bathroom again. At the sound of running water, I take my chance to neaten some of the books on his desk then dash to his kitchen to flip the grilled cheese sandwich I’ve got going on the pan.

I like slow, unplanned mornings like this. Usually I’m so exhausted from baking and prepping all day that I knock out until the next day and don’t leave the bed until past ten (if I’m not making breakfast for the family, that is). So, whenever I get rare days and weeks off, I spend the mornings with my friends. Sometimes it’s thought-inducing, other times there’s a lot of clumsy laughter, and then we have moments like these.

Simple. Quiet. Domestic.

 

‘Hawke?’ Fenris calls me, leaning against the fridge and nodding towards the wall cabinet beside it. I kill the heat and reach him in a few strides, then retrieve the box of Royal Elfroot tea from the top shelf for him. He takes a teabag out and hands the box back to me with a word of thanks and I put it back in place.

‘Wouldn’t it be easier for you to just put the box somewhere you can reach it?’ I comment while I wrap the grilled cheese sandwich with a piece of baking sheet, amused.

He pours the hot water steadily over the teabag in his mug, then adds two cubes of sugar and a splash of milk. ‘I would, but you keep putting the box back up on the top shelf,’ he explains, sipping his tea and eying the box where he says it is. _Oh._ I guess I do it out of habit since that’s where I put our tea back at home. Marian rarely complains about it because either Carver and I are around to get it for her.

‘Leave it, though. I have coffee every other morning and tea when you’re around. It is a welcome change,’ he shrugs, blowing on his drink for a bit before taking another experimental sip.

I take a bite out of my sandwich and get lost in cheese-heaven for a few seconds before asking his views about the most important meal of the day again. ‘I don’t suppose I can change your mind about breakfast?’ Fenris doesn’t eat breakfast and it bugs the _hell_ out of me.

‘Hawke, I can assure you that a mug of coffee and/or tea is what _all_ librarians need to keep this face on at work,’ he explains, gesturing with his free hand the expression he has now. It’s his ‘work face’ and I almost choke on my snack.

He finishes off his tea (Maker knows how anyone can drink hot tea that fast) and quickly rinses the mug before grabbing his backpack and keys. ‘I assume you are my ride to work today, yes?’

I gesture dramatically towards his front door with my head bowed. ‘Your chariot awaits, _Messere_.’

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

The past few months have been pretty uneventful to say the least—the November wedding favour Varric called in for got pushed back to this year instead, then Varric’s sources confirm that the murderer of my parents is still in solitary confinement, and the gruesome killings we had last year pretty much came to a sudden halt. The only thing worth mentioning is Carver’s promotion, and my new best friend aka Fenris the Librarian. Varric still wonders how that happened since we’re literally personalities on two _very_ different extremes. His actual words were: _‘You and Broody?!’_

After I drop Fenris off at work, I pick up some food and drive to Lowtown to have lunch with Merrill at her shop. It’s almost the start of October and I’ve been having a ridiculously chill day as a reward for the intense month I had all of September. Currently on my calendar I only have a handful of cupcake orders in time for Halloween, one cake for a wedding, and some simple cookie orders. Other than that, October looks like it’ll breeze right through as it usually does.

Out of habit, I make my way to the studio to do some decluttering and organising but end up baking a few tartes instead since Merrill gave me some fresh apples. The best part about baking tartes is that I don’t have to wait for the butter to fully soften before combining it with the flour to make the crust. While waiting for the filling to start cooking, I roll out the pastry over the baking tins. Somewhere in my bag on the sofa, my phone chimes a few times but I ignore it. Being in the zone sets my focus. I find that my mind is clear, my breathing is calm, and my body is in full auto-pilot doing what I do best 

After lining the pastries with parchment paper and filling it with my baking beads, I place all three tins into the oven and set the timer for fifteen minutes. Perfect for the crusts to bake until it’s just golden brown. I turn my attention back to the apple filling that’s simmering in the pot steadily, tasting and tweaking the flavour as I stir to prevent it from burning. It’s always my favourite part—the tasting. It doesn’t take much science to tweak flavour, which gives me a bit more control to the pastry. When that’s done, I set it aside to cool for a bit before removing the freshly baked crusts from the oven and doing the same.

 

The bell on my studio door rings just as I’m carefully spooning the filling onto the last crust and Carver comes in looking shagged from work.

‘Hey, I thought you said you weren’t working this week?’ he asks, setting his briefcase onto the sofa and a takeaway carrier on the coffee table. He loosens his tie and takes a seat at the counter across me and my Thinking Stool. ‘Sweet holy Andraste that smells _so good_ , Brother.’

I finish scraping the last of the filling from the pot before answering. ‘I’m not. Just thought I’d pop in to declutter but I guess I can’t stay away from the oven,’ I shrug, washing my sticky hands and dying them on my apron. ‘What’s wrong? You don’t usually stop by.’

Carver clears his throat. ‘Oh. I, uh, bought you dinner. I know it’s my turn to cook tonight but I need to work late again.’

‘That Meredith woman is really working you to the bone. Just say the word and Marian’ll fix it,’ I tell him, though only half-jokingly. The lack of Carver’s presence in the household is more than noticeable these days. He laughs nervously at the sound of our sister’s name and I start to get suspicious. ‘Carver, what’s this _really_ about?’

Giving in, he sighs. ‘Maker, Marian’s going to _kill_ me. Okay, look, I need to fly out on the third. Kieran can’t make the meeting and Meredith needs me to step in for—‘

I nearly drop the pot that I just took off the stove to wash. ‘You think Mare’s going to kill you? Carver Maurever Hawke, _I’m_ going to kill you! You know what day that—‘

‘—Of course I know the bloody date when our parents were _murdered_ , Garrett!! You think I didn’t try to get out of it?!’ His voice is raised now—which really sets me off and I throw the pot into the sink and almost grab him by the shirt. 

‘Carver, this job is running you into the ground! You’re constantly exhausted, you work _ridiculously_ hard for insane hours—hell—we don’t see you for breakfast anymore! Did you even spend time with Bethany when she was here two weeks ago?’

He’s quiet because we both know the answer to that.

I exhale, trying to calm down and take a seat across him. ‘I know you think we live in the past when we visit their graves. But it’s more than just a visit. It’s about just being there together as a family.’

‘Maker, if you’re reacting this way, I can’t imagine what Sister will do to me when I tell her,’ he sighs, burying his face into his hands then raking his fingers through his hair in exasperation before slouching onto the counter. I don’t bother to tell him that it’s still sticky and oily from all the prep-work.

The iPad starts ringing and I give him a pat on the arm before walking over to answer the call. ‘I’d wear a helmet when you tell Marian if I were you.’

‘Gee, thanks,’ he mumbles.

 

 _‘Hawke!!!’_ Merrill’s face comes to life on my screen and I give her a wave in greeting. She has her fringe pinned back with a little yellow flower hairpin today. Merrill returns my greeting enthusiastically before craning her neck to see who’s with me. _‘Oh, I’m so sorry! Are you with a client?’_

I look back, forgetting briefly that my brother’s with me. ‘Oh no, that’s just my brother, Carver. What’s up, Merrill?’

_‘I just wanted to ask for a favour if that’s alright? Since you’re going to Orlais for that wedding in a few weeks. D’you mind looking into an antique shop for me while you’re there? It’ll be in the Summer Bazaar right in the capital!’_

‘Sure. What am I looking for?’ I ask, quickly noting it down onto the dry-erase board I have on the fridge.

Merrill begins flipping through her little notebook and holds it up for me to see. It’s a rough sketch she made in blue ink. _‘It’s a mirror—something that was probably around since the days of Arlathan. Can you imagine that! Varric was nice enough to have someone track it for the last year and it’s been spotted in Val Royeaux! I’ll take a picture of my notes along with the sketch and send it to you!’_

I laugh, amused at her own excitement. ‘Of course, Merrill. We’ll have some time to look around. I’ll call you if I find anything, alright?’

 _‘Yay! Thank you, Hawke! I knew I could count on you!’_ She gives me another enthusiastic wave before she ends the call.

I turn back to see Carver staring at me like he’s seen a ghost. ‘What?’

‘Who was that?’ he asks suddenly.

‘Merrill. You know, my supplier for some of my ingredients? Where did you think Bethy got you that collapsible cup from?’

He sits upright again and begins adjusting his tie. ‘That’s _Merrill_?’

Before I play one-hundred questions with him, the iPad rings again and Fenris’ name pops up on the screen. ‘Right, that’s my dinner date since I foresee tension building up at home that’ll spoil my appetite. Good luck!’ I wave him off and Carver takes his queue to gather his things. He still hasn’t realised that his sleeves are dirty and thankfully, I’m not doing laundry this week.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ he groans.

‘Don’t forget that helmet!’ I remind him and he flips me off like the loving brother he is.

 

Fenris video-calls me sometimes while he’s on break at work. It started with my indecisiveness about lunch one day (and sending him pictures of my food when I finally ordered). Then a few days later _he_ was trying to decide between a caesar, and fruit salad. We decided that a phone call would be much easier than texting, and that video-calls are even better. Plus, the risk of me dropping my phone into a bowl of noodle soup miraculously drops to zero.

‘And there’s my favourite librarian in Kirkwall!’ I throw him a gleeful salute.

 _‘Just in Kirkwall? You wound my pride, Hawke,’_ he greets me with a nod and a brow raised. He has his glasses down today and I know that he’s probably had a rough day at work.

‘I haven’t visited many libraries, Fenris. When I find a shiny new librarian outside of our city I’ll be sure to let you know.’ 

 _‘Oh, my poor wounded soul_ ,’ he rolls his eyes at me and begins rummaging through his takeaway bag. Today he’s having some stir-fried noodles with a side of deep fried salmon skin. I take the iPad off the wall mount and angle it nicely onto the fridge where it stays in place perfectly with the help of the strong magnets from the mount. I don’t tell him that I have dinner with me myself, and decide to clean up since I need to take the tartes out from the fridge soon.

 

In the short amount of time that I’ve gotten to know Fenris, I noticed that he doesn’t keep much company. He’s quiet when we’re around people—a stark difference when he’s work-Fenris, really. But maybe that’s why we’re friends. Our different personalities complement each other, and I tend to read him better than most. He’s silently eating as he observes me at work. When he’s perked up a little after having a bit of food in his system and some well-deserved peace and quiet, he asks questions. _Why does the butter need to be cold? Wouldn’t it be easier to use chocolate chips? How does adding white food colouring help the ganache?_ Steadily, we’d ease back into a regular conversation and throw insults back and forth like a regular Tuesday. Today though, his glasses never go up and I take it that he just wants to watch me work.

 _‘Shit, that looks good,’_ he says suddenly when he sees me take out the fresh tartes and set them onto the counter. I’ve gotten so used to his voice that it doesn’t startle me when he speaks suddenly, which is weird since I work alone for long hours and tend to jump whenever I hear another voice in the studio.

I laugh, thankful that he seems a bit more comfortable from the sound of his voice. ‘I’ll save you a slice. Come by the studio tomorrow if you’re keen?’

He nods, yawning and stretching in his seat. _‘Do you want anything from K.C?’_

‘Grande K.C roast with Antivan chips, a pump of caramel, topped with Starkhaven’s signature cream,’ I say almost immediately while easing the pastries out of their tins. Fenris snorts, and I’m almost certain that it’s accompanied by an eye-roll.

 _‘You must have a death wish if you think that order is going to come out of my mouth in public,’_ he says, and I can see him reaching for the phone. I take a quick glance at my wall clock and realise that his dinner break is almost up.

‘Love you Fen. See you lunchtime tomorrow!’

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

My sister’s office is down at the Docks. Not the most ideal place for an office, and I’ll forever be guilty about that. She almost signed a lease for a much better place in the heart of Kirkwall at the Gallows but we got drunk that weekend on our birthday and I rambled on about having to _still_ bake out of the kitchen. So here she is—stuck in a shady-looking office building with a door that has one lock and a cracked sign that says _Swords and Shields Investigations._

I reach for the door when I hear Aveline. ‘You’re being stubborn, _again_.’

‘Just because there hasn’t been similar murders in the last few months doesn't mean that the killer just _vanished_ , Aveline. Something’s not right,’ Marian argues and I can hear one of them tear open a bit of plastic. ‘Ow! _Fucking hell_ , Vallen!’

Aveline snorts, amused at whatever pain my sister’s in. ‘I’ll tell you what’s not right—your obsession with this killer who doesn't even exist! Now hold still before I stitch something else other than your… wait, do you smell that?‘

‘Gare, is that you? I can see the outline of your beard. And Aveline can smell...’

‘A traditional Orlesian Apple tarte,’ she guesses smugly. Damnit, Vallen. Way to blow my cover.

I enter their office with my hands up in defeat. ‘Right, you caught me. Had an extra tarte and I thought I’d drop it off along with the car. Thanks for letting me borrow it today, Mare.’

‘Well, we had a stakeout today so we took Aveline’s mini-van. Thought you might want the car anyway since you had errands to run,’ she tells me while gesturing for the baked goods.

‘Did the stakeout give you that wound?’ I ask, giving her the box along with some disposable cutlery I had lying around in the studio. When Marian lifts the lid, the wonderful smell of the pastry fills their stuffy office. It smells so delectable that even Aveline had to look up from the wound she’s stitching. I look away. The very sight of blood and wounds make me queasy.

Marian pokes her fork into one of the slices and takes a big chunk out of it. ‘No this is from _after_ the stakeout. We had a runner. Put up quite the fight too. She tackled big Red here to the ground and gave me this with her bloody car keys. Shit, Gare. _This is good._ ’

‘She had a lot to lose. And it was her own fault,’ Aveline says, putting the needle through my sister’s skin as Marian takes another bite out of the tarte.

‘At least now her husband has enough evidence against her to prove that she’s an unfit mother. Drugs, firearm, inhalants? Hell, I’d take her in myself if I could but being P.I means we don’t have the authority to arrest anyone,’ she explains, finishing the last of the stitches and snipping the excess bits off.

‘We can however, give our clients the appropriate leverage for them to file reports to the right authorities,’ she continues, cleaning the wound one last time and I think the fork in my sister’s mouth almost breaks.

Marian finally puts the box down and takes a roll of fresh gauze to wrap around her arm. ‘If she doesn't try to flee the city,’ she muses with the fork still in-between her lips. Maker, I really wish she’d go to a medic for those wounds.

Aveline discards the leftover stitches and anything that has blood on them and disinfects her hands. ‘That’s Cassandra’s problem, it’s out of our hands. Now, are you going to give me my share of the tarte, or do I have to pin you onto the floor for it, Marian?’

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

 

29th September, Tuesday.

I’m up a little earlier than usual the next morning and decide to take Siobhan out for a walk. She chases me around the house—hopping from one vantage point to another—when she hears me dangling her leash and harness. I surrender when she leaps onto my shoulders from the banister... mainly because she’s kneading excitedly into my flesh. Leaving my phone behind, I follow wherever Siobhan wants to go. She leads me confidently like clockwork towards Cousland’s house next door and I can hear Rufus skipping about behind the door. When it opens, Siobhan greets my neighbour—rubbing against his legs and wheelchair as I give him the last full tarte and offer to take his Mabari out for a morning stroll.

When we’re back home, my phone chimes and it’s Fenris.

 

Fenris [10:30am]

Is the apple tarte still available?

Garrett [10:31am]

Unless someone broke into the studio last night, yes it is.

Fenris [10:31am]

Ha. What did you say you wanted from K.C?

Garrett [10:32am]

Grande K.C roast with Antivan chips, a pump of caramel, topped with Starkhaven’s signature cream

Fenris [10:33am]

Good. Now I don’t have to say that out loud.

‘Fenris you sneaky bastard,’ I laugh and pocket my phone to prepare a quiet breakfast for both Siobhan and myself before heading out.

 

I find myself in the studio within the hour, decluttering and reorganising my things for a good three hours. Exhausted, I take a break and try my hand at a new recipe I found in a library book: _Crème pâtissière fruit tartlets_. The first batch comes out wrong and nothing like the picture at all. The crust was too crumbly and burnt at the bottom. The custard was too eggy, and even the finishing glaze came out too runny.

The second one comes out a little better after I tweak the temperature of the oven and change the butter-to-flour ratio of the crust. The custard still came out too eggy and I finally realise what was wrong and fix it on my third try.

‘Ha! Got you now, custard. You’re no match for Garrett Hawke, the Baker of Kirkwall!’ I exclaim to the pale-yellow mixture and turn on the stand-mixer to knock back the cooled custard so that the texture turns from coagulated to creamy again. Thankfully, it was a problem easily rectified—I just had to temper the yolk-mixture first _before_ adding it into the milk that’s simmering in the saucepan so that I don’t get clumps of eggy blobs.

After letting the last batch of tartlets cool, I pipe in the custard from the middle and work my way to the edges. Then I assemble the thinly sliced peaches that I’ve left sitting in syrup water into a floral pattern and place them in the fridge for them to properly set.

 

I bring down the screens with a press of a button and put on some music as I start to clean. Sometimes I miss days like this where I bake and experiment without worry of deadlines, or things going wrong. It’s not long before I start belting out to the song on my playlist and wiggle my butt as I wipe down the counter in sync. When the song reaches the chorus and I have a floor wiper high in the air whilst striking a pose, my wonderful brother Carver walks in. His expression tells me that he’s either amused, or mortified at what’s before him.

‘Oh, I’m telling Marian.’ Amused it is.

I hit pause on the iPad and set the wiper down. ‘You most certainly will **not**.’

‘She’s going to mock you until the day you get married, then tell your grandchildren about it. Garrett Hawke listens to _Ariana Ventino_ ,’ he teases, hitting ‘play’ on the iPad and the song continues, going into the second verse. I practice some impressive self-restraint and resist the urge to sing along to that as well.

‘If you tell Mare so help me—‘ I sigh. This is clearly a losing battle. ‘Why are you here, Carver?’

‘Oh, right. I wanted to ask you if you could teach me how to make a pie. Like the one you were making yesterday.’

‘It’s a _tarte_ , Carver. If it’s for some office thing you can have these if you like. Just came out of the oven,’ I tell him, showing him my latest masterpiece.

‘No, it’s not for work. And I need to bake it myself! Look, will you teach me, or do I have to do it myself at home?’ He asks, and I contemplate letting him figure it out on his own as punishment for even thinking about flying off on our parents’ death anniversary. Then I remember the last mishap we had when Carver tried his hand at baking _unsupervised_. He’s the reason why there’s _still_ some sort of crème-residue on the kitchen ceiling.

‘Tell you what, _brother_. You keep my secret obsession about Ariana and I’ll teach you how to bake the best damn tarte in Kirkwall,’ I offer my hand out to him across the counter.

I can tell he’s conflicted because this family has an unhealthy obsession on keeping tabs on all my embarrassing stories. He’d be taking a loss if he lets this one slide. ‘Damnit! _Deal_. But you can’t ask me about the tartlet.’

‘Deal,’ we agree, shaking on it and he leaves me to me and my tunes.

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

When Fenris comes in during his lunch break, he has some sandwiches for himself and mac & cheese for me. Both of us have grande-sized K.C roasts—his is just not riddled with sugar and cream. Aveline calls just before we stuff our faces with food and she ends up joining us for lunch over video-call.

‘Isn’t my sister with you?’

 _‘No. That wound wasn’t looking too good so I got Varric to drag her to the coroner’s office since she refuses to go to the hospital to get it checked. At least Dorian can have it looked at. M.E’s as good as your stubborn sister will get,’_ she explains, waving around a fork with a broccoli stabbed at its prongs.

‘What happened to her?’ Fenris asks, turning to me, then to Aveline.

_‘Got into a scuffle with a runner yesterday. Bitch sliced her arm pretty good.’_

‘That doesn’t sound like her,’ Fenris comments, taking a sip at his coffee with an eyebrow raised. Even he knows that Marian’s reflexes are usually as quick as lightning. Enough for her to be able to dodge a cheap attack like that.

‘That’s what I thought!’ I exclaim, but in my excitement, I manage to flick a piece of cheesy macaroni onto Fenris’ face. He side-eyes me and finally decides to devour his apple tarte.

Aveline snorts, but recovers quickly and resumes her stern law-enforcement-voice again. _‘Right? I thought so too, so I did some snooping while she’s away. The woman we were hired to investigate was a drug mule for another man originally from Ostwick. He had an APB put out for him a few months ago and the Guard caught him in the Gallows trying to leave Kirkwall by train. Somehow, he’s a free man now and he was with the bitch when we were tailing her.’_

‘I don’t get it. Does she think this was the guy from the murders?’ I ask, wiping away the splotch of cheese on Fenris’ cheek with a napkin.

_‘Hawke, if this was the guy from the murders there’d probably be a bullet through his head and she’d have Varric send him halfway across the Free Marches by now, fated to be fed to the sharks of the Waking Sea. I don’t agree with your sister’s choices a lot of times, but I do know that the system sucks and that he’d be back on the streets by sundown tomorrow even if the Guard arrested him.’_

I don’t know why, but I ask anyway. Hearing about criminals doesn’t bode well for me but like Varric always says, _it’s good to know_. ‘So, what’d you guys do? I mean, if he wasn’t the guy involved with last year’s murders, why bother in the first place?’

_‘No, but Marian’s CI has word that one of his clients is our guy. Your sister maimed him—he’s going to have an ugly scar on his face for the rest of his life. Scar like that, you don’t go unrecognised and he’ll lead us to his source eventually.’_

‘Smart,’ Fenris comments. He looks like he’s genuinely impressed… and honestly so am I. We hear a _ping_ and Aveline reaches out for her computer to the side.

‘That’s my sister alright. Cunning +10, right, Aveline?’ I take another spoonful of cheesy goodness.

There’s a still quietness that follows and I hear the clatter of a fork from Aveline’s screen. Her face goes stern and her features crunch up in a mix of shock and anger. ‘Aveline...?’

 _‘That blithering **idiot**!!! Sorry boys, emergency.’_ She informs us briefly before her line is cut off.

‘Well, that can’t be good,’ Fenris says, folding his arms as he looks from the screen to me.

I set my spoon back down into the bowl and a thought runs through my head. I try to shake it away, but it latches on quietly in the depths of my mind. ‘D’you think she’s alright?’

‘This is Kirkwall, Hawke. Nothing is ever as it seems,’ he reminds me, and I hate it that he’s right.

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

I try not to let Aveline bother me but it was all I could think of on my walk back home. I call both my siblings to see if they wanted anything specific for dinner, but neither of them pick up. Carver’s probably nose-deep in paperwork, and there’s a fifty-fifty chance that my sister’s fist has come in contact with a perpetrator’s face right this second. When I reach home to our quiet estate this evening, I’m greeted by Siobhan, who brushes lovingly against my pant leg. I bend down to pat her and she follows me into the kitchen where she takes her place on the counter, kneading the marble top and purring loudly.

'I guess it's just you and me, Siobhan. What do you say to date night with your favourite Hawke?' I ask her and she blinks at me in return. It's her way of telling me that she approves of my suggestion.

I whip up a simple dinner of pasta, some vegetables, and a pan-seared salmon fillet. Thankfully, there was just enough of Marian's homemade pesto still in the fridge. We eat dinner together in quiet companionship-me with my plate of carbs, and Siobhan with her grain-free chicken breast with Maker knows what, served in the special dish Anders got for her when she fell sick some years ago. While I clean up our plates after our meals, Siobhan has taken her place on the couch, cleaning her face and pausing sometimes to glance up at the telly. We always put on nature shows for her entertainment. When I'm done, I take a quick shower and change into a something comfortable before plopping myself down onto the couch with her.

'Can I change the channel? I'm a bit behind on this season of Orphan Black.' Siobhan doesn't answer, but stretches her back instead, then proceeds to assume her loaf-form, staring at me briefly before closing her eyes. With that sign of approval, I delve into four hours worth of insane clone-riddled misadventures of Sarah Manning and her Clone Club.

At eleven, I decide to turn in early for the night and scoop Siobhan up from the couch. She contorts and stretches in my arms before promptly falling back to sleep, and I place her on her cat tree in Carver's room and leave the door ajar before heading into mine.

As I walk down the hallway, I pass a few family photos that are hung on the wall. There’s one of us outside a farm in Lothering with Mother in the early stages of her pregnancy with the twins. In a slightly bigger frame there’s another of the time we visited the Winter Palace. I remember that day well—we had so much fun in the snow while Bethany and Mother were entertained with a performance of The Nutcracker. It was the last winter we spent together.

There's a text from Lavellan and Fenris, but I decide to answer them tomorrow morning and set my phone on the bedside table. Tonight, is one of those nights where I feel like I need to be alone.

 

30th September, Wednesday.

My dreamless sleep is rudely interrupted the next morning by the engine of a motorcycle revving in front of our house. I groan, knowing full well who it is and jog downstairs to stop the noise lest our neighbours file a complaint. I see that Siobhan has already poised herself by the window with her tail protectively around her body. The revving thankfully stops while I fumble for the locks sleepily and I instantly regret this decision.

‘Honey, I'm home!!!' Isabela tackles me to the ground as soon as I get the front door open. I hear her long earrings clank against each other and can only hope that it doesn’t tangle with my beard. The last time that happened, I had to shave it off. Poor beard, it deserved better.

'Wrong Hawke, Isabela,’ I groan, my back already sore from hitting the floor.

At the sound of my voice, Isabela lifts her head from my chest and clicks her tongue. 'Rats, it's the man-Hawke. Where's the sexy one?'

She helps me up, then quite literally throws herself onto our couch as I call for my sister. 'Mare! Your girlfriend's here!'

No answer.

Strange. After six months of being apart, you'd think my sister would break down the door and backflip down the stairs into the arms of her lover. 'Marian?' _Did she even come home last night?_

Before I can check the rest of the house, I hear my phone ring from upstairs and run up to get it. It’s Varric.

 

_'Hawke, did you get a chance to check your phone yet?'_

'No, I literally just got up thanks to Isabela. What's wrong? And have you seen my sister?' I ask, worried at the carefulness of Varric’s tone.

_’Rivaini's back? Oh, good. Listen, don't freak out, but can you be at the precinct in the next hour? And bring Rivaini, too.'_

I check the notifications on my phone quickly and realise that I have _twenty_ missed calls from Aveline. My chest feels tight and I can’t breathe. 'Andraste's tits Varric, what happened?!' I almost scream into the phone.

Varric sighs. _'It's better if you head down and let Aveline explain.'_

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

I’ve only been to the precinct once before this—when I accompanied Wynne to get my then-juvenile twin sister out of trouble. We had just turned fifteen and it was her first and only black spot on her otherwise clean record. Marian had roughed up a group of delinquents and beat one of them so badly that she not only broke his arm, but his face as well. She punched him repeatedly until the left side of his face was so swollen that the poor sod was almost unrecognisable. Aveline (who was a fresh junior officer then) said that it took three guards to pry her off of the boy. That’s when they first met. I still never knew what triggered Marian that day. What I do know is that Wynne wasn’t angry that the kid got hurt, and that she took that secret to the grave.

When Isabela and I reach Thedas' 37th precinct—aka the Kirkwall City Guard—I see my sister sitting and sulking in a chair with her hands cuffed to one of the officer's desk. My sigh of relief that my sister is safe doesn’t go unnoticed, and Isabela rubs my shoulder reassuringly.

A man soon takes a seat across from her, paperwork in hand and I recognise him as none other than Cullen. Marian throws her head back, slouching further down her chair and I can feel the complaint that escapes her. Soon enough, we're greeted by one of Aveline's ex co-workers, Brennan. She escorts the both of us to a waiting area where Aveline is and our red-head fills us in on the details.

'She _what?!_ ' I shout, forgetting where I am and we get a few curious glances directed at us. Aveline gives them an apologetic nod and shoots me a look.

'Breaking and entering, trespassing, impersonating a police officer, _and_ assaulting a suspect,’ Aveline summarises, massaging the bridge of her nose. There are shadows under her eyes, her shirt is only half-tucked into her pants, and there’s a huge coffee stain on her left torso. Maker, she looks like she hasn’t slept all night.

Isabela has her hands on her hips, grinning proudly. 'That's my girl.'

Aveline shoots a look at her. 'This isn't a laughing matter, you slattern.'

Isabela coos at the insult. ‘Oh, I’ve _definitely_ missed you—‘

‘—Wait so is my sister going to jail?' I hold out my hands to stop them from wringing each other’s necks.

Aveline grits her teeth and I can tell she’s trying to keep her cool for me. One of us getting arrested is enough for one day. ’On any normal occasion, she'd be facing three years behind bars and fifty hours of community service. Thankfully, Cullen was the one who caught her, and I still have the respect of everyone in this precinct so your sister’s getting off on a hefty bail. That was the most I could do.'

'How much is it?' I ask nervously.

Aveline sighs. 'Five thousand.'

'Wha—'

'Done!' Isabela interrupts me merrily and pulls out a wad of cash from her teeny purse. 'I've got your five-grand right here, so get my bloody girlfriend out of those cuffs.’

‘Isabela what are you even doing walking around with that kind of money in your purse?! This is _Kirkwall_ ,’ I tell her off, already exhausted from her presence. It’s not even been three hours since she set foot in Kirkwall and I can already feel a developing migraine.

She places a hand adorned with rings and oversized bangles on my shoulder and clicks her tongue at me. ‘Pup, you forget that I’m from _Rivain_ where you literally get robbed in broad daylight by hundreds of clairvoyant-wannabees and vagrant beggars on the streets. Now tell me where I can post bail, big girl.’

‘She’s got more cash on her in her bra, doesn’t she?’ Aveline asks when she’s out of earshot.

‘One wad for each boob, I’ll bet.’

 

While the two ladies go to post my sister’s bail (Aveline of course, handles the paperwork while Isabela’s juggling her wad of cash into the air with one hand), Cullen spots me and I acknowledge him with an nod. He exchanges a quick word with Marian (who sticks her tongue out at him when his back is turned) and reaches me in a few strides.

‘Hawke, may I have a word with you in private?’ Sweet Maker, sometimes I swear he seems taller than me even though we’re essentially almost the same height.

‘Cullen, if it’s about my sister then I assure you that Aveline’s the better—‘

‘Actually, it’s about Melana. I... wish to ask for her hand and quite frankly, I’m a bit nervous.’ Cullen takes out a black box containing the engagement ring from his pocket and Maker’s breath, it’s _beautiful_. He places the box carefully on my palm, allowing me to examine the ring in all its beauty where it sits perfectly between the small velvet cushions. The ring itself is a golden half-sunburst from the bottom, and poised in the middle of the arch is a stunning black diamond that gleams with every movement. I imagine how it would rest on her finger and I get this childish grin on my face.

A laugh escapes him and he sounds relieved. ‘I take your silence and the expression on your face as a good sign, I hope? I had it custom made for her: the sunburst to represent her—our—faith, and the black diamond—‘

‘—Is because she found a black pebble on the shore one day and was _convinced_ that it was a bloody diamond. She still carries that stupid rock with her everywhere she goes!’ I laugh at the memory of her telling me about it. I teased her for years after that. ‘It’s perfect, Cullen. She’ll love it,’ I assure him, thankful that she’s found someone puts her above everything else. He brings out the best in her like she does for him, and they both deserve the happiness they can provide each other. Their individually tragic pasts owe them this at least.

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

 

1st October, Friday. 

Some sense is finally knocked into my brother and he’s kindly decided to take time off work for the next few days. There are other reasons besides our parents’ death anniversary of course; he still wanted to learn how to bake a tartlet, and he always picks Bethany up from the station.

Anyone can greet her, really, but it’s Carver’s thing and he’s been doing it for years since they went to different universities. Carver enrolled in Weishauppt’s School of Technology, while Bethany decided that she wanted to be closer to home and ended up in the University of Orlais which was just two hours away by train. During the major holidays, my brother always took the trouble to fly to Orlais to reunite with his twin so that they could take the train back to Kirkwall together. Their twin-dynamic is so different from mine and Marian’s—but that’s probably because they saw the kind of mischief that we got ourselves into while growing up. Well, the kind of mischief that my _sister_ dragged me into.

 

‘What time does Bethany’s train arrive again?’ I ask while I watch him measure out the flour into the bowl on the weighing scale.

‘Half-past seven—but we won’t be home until eight. Beth says she wants to put in an order for the flowers first thing,’ he answers, finishing with the flour and moving on to measuring out the sugar.

‘I assume Marian talked some sense into you?’ Judging from all the yelling I heard last night and waking up to brand new set of dinnerware, I figured that Carver finally grew the balls to tell her about his work trip. Thankfully, she greatly disagreed.

Carver flinches at our sister’s name and gets a bit of extra sugar into the bowl which he chooses to leave it. I make a mental note to add just a pinch more of salt when he’s not looking to counter the extra sweetness. ‘Firmly. Said if I don’t cancel my work trip, I’m bringing dishonour to the family so much that the cat would even disown me.’

‘Then she kicked you out of the house for the night?’ I know this because Siobhan scratched at my door last night to be let in. He checks all the ingredients on the counter while I put everything we no longer need back in place.

‘Then she kicked me out of the house for the night. Why is this even called a tarte, Gare? Looks like a bloody pie to me,’ he pushes the recipe book towards me and points at the picture.

I gasp and take a step back in shock. ‘How _dare_ you mock the tarte you fiend! There’s a big difference in the crust and how it’s baked and served!’ I point my rolling pin towards him and he ignores me, whipping out his phone. He’s doing that Carver thing we all hate. He’s trying _to prove a point._

‘Ha! The Orlesian word _tarte_ can mean either pie or tart. It’s basically the same thing, brother!’ he shows me the search page triumphantly.

‘Bloody Orlesians,’ I mutter under my breath. ‘Wait, where’d you spend the night then? Did you go to the Blooming Rose?’ I tease and try to change the subject, handing him the bowl of eggs.

Carver turns scarlet almost immediately and I almost drop them when he punches me on the arm. ‘You know Peaches works there and I can get a room— _alone_ —for free!!!’

Peaches is Carver’s childhood friend from primary school. What he _doesn’t_ know is that Varric almost walked in on them having a one-night-stand at Barlin’s when we all went for a farm-stay some years back. We all knew that Peaches had a thing for Carver but sadly, my brother still wasn’t properly over Triss. Our group was so much smaller then—and Marian was still with Anders—but we were still pretty chaotic. Now, Peaches is a sex worker and she’s pretty far up the rankings at the Blooming Rose in the red-light district of Hightown. Women envy her, the men can’t get enough of her, and both are equally terrified of getting on her bad side.

 

I have a final fit of laughter before we get back to our tartes. Unfortunately, Carver’s an impatient student and he messes up the science behind some of the things before I have a chance to explain. Two batches of sweet crust pastry, three bowls of custard, and a burnt tartlet later (don’t worry, I made some backups just in case), he finally has three perfect palm-sized tartlets, decorated with fresh raspberries and blueberries. While we allow the tartes to cool in the fridge for a bit, he helps with the clean-up while I run out to grab us some snacks from Bodhan’s. When I come back, Fenris’ bicycle is parked outside and I see my brother and my favourite librarian having a chat by the counter.

‘Hey, you didn’t tell me you were dropping by. Could’ve bought you something,’ I tell him, placing the takeaway bag from Bodhan’s onto the counter. Carver begins to rummage through for his favourite snacks.

Fenris takes off his glasses and sets them onto the counter. He’s in a black beanie today that rests nicely on his head. He’s also wearing his favourite grey _Panic! At the Dancefloor_ concert hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows which means that he’s probably off from work since he’s comfortable enough to show his tattoos. ‘There was something I wish to discuss with you. I thought of calling you about it but decided that it was best if I came in person.’

Maker, it sounds serious. ‘Sure, hold on let me pack the tartes for Carver first,’ I tell him and he nods, easing back into whatever conversation he had with Carver before I interrupted. I think it’s about some computer game.

When Carver leaves (with a skewer of fried dumplings in his mouth), Fenris begins telling me about a patron he encountered a few days prior. At first it seemed like the normal sort of thing he’d tell me over our video-calls or texts, but then it started to sound a little bit familiar. The sound of my heartbeat amplifies by tenfold and I hear it right up to my ears. Fenris’ voice soon drowns out as he mentions dates, names, and places, and I only snap back to reality when he places a hand on my shoulder.

 

‘Hawke?’ he calls me and my vision focuses back on him.

‘What? S-Sorry. I… honestly, I tuned you out for a bit.’ My voice is shaky and my throat feels incredibly dry.

Fenris shakes his head and stands up to fetch me a glass of water. He always knows what I need. I drink it in one go and he waits for a bit before talking again. ‘I understand if you do not wish to discuss such a personal topic. I just thought you should know that there was someone who inquired about it is all.’

‘What did you say this person asked about, specifically?’ I ask, and I start to pick at a stray hangnail.

‘Newspaper clippings, notes, published articles about the day of your parents’ murder. They mentioned that they were writing their thesis on several serial killers across the Free Marches. The library keeps records of such things as long as they were published publicly, but such information and requests can only be provided by the librarians.’

‘So, they’re not available for the public?’ I ask, taking slow, long breaths.

‘Not generally, no. A request is usually submitted through an institute, or a facility like hospitals before it is forwarded to us,’ he explains further. Good. That means Varric and Aveline kept their word.

I think about what Marian said—that I need to talk about it. That I needed to see a therapist like her. You know what? Maybe she’s right. Maybe this is why I’m still not able to talk about my parents without potentially choking on my held-back tears.

‘Are you… alright? I apologise if this has triggered any unpleasant memories,’ he takes the empty glass off the table and stands to wash it but I reach for his arm quietly. He nods, then sits back on the sofa and waits patiently.

I take a deep breath, then exhale. ‘No. I think my sister’s right,’ I start, then grow silent as if my instincts are telling me to back the fuck out. But I don’t. Of all the people in the world, the Maker sent Fenris to me—to us. Maybe it’s his way of helping me get over my fears. His way of pushing me to move forward, even if it’s something as simple as talking about the murder.

 

So, I do and in the next hour—with a few breaks and tears in-between—I tell Fenris every single detail of the afternoon our parents were murdered.

* * *

 


	6. October Third -Then

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For most people in Thedas, October the third was just another ordinary day. For the Hawke-Amell children, it was a day that changed their lives forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: anxiety, PTSD, murder, stalkers, blood & gore, disturbing scenes. please get a friend to read this chapter beforehand if any of those are your triggers.

* * *

All Malcolm wanted to do was to bring the family up to their summer home up in Tantervale for the weekend. It’d been a… challenging few months for Leandra ever since she was invited to Halamshiral by the Queen herself to receive an award of recognition and thanks for her art restoration services. After that, his talented wife was even busier than before—art commissions came in from all over Thedas ranging from classic life-sized pieces for high-nosed nobles and officials, to simpler ones of family portraits, and even the occasional restoration of old paintings.

But because of her sudden rise in the art industry, Leandra also gained an enthusiastic ‘fan’.

In all honesty, they should’ve gone home. The younger Hawke-twins had caught a cold the night before, but Malcolm and Leandra gave in to all four of them. Young Carver was surprisingly the most convincing of the lot. The boy rarely shared his opinions, but he made a remarkably compelling point about the sheer importance of an occasional family vacation to strengthen their bonds. Bethany even pinky-swore that she’d ‘absolutely get better’ on the drive up to Tantervale, just to seal the deal in. The innocence of their four perfect children always won their hearts, and who could blame them? They were adorable.

Garrett and Marian were nine. Carver and Bethany were four.

 

(´w ｀ *)(´w ｀ *)(´w ｀ *)

‘I get the top bunk!!’ Marian claimed excitedly, using the might of a nine-year-old to swing the car door open. Even before Garrett could grab his sister by her backpack, Marian hopped out of her seat and sprinted towards the back of the Amell summer home. Malcolm sighed with cheerful resignation at the sight of his mischievous rogue of a daughter. He knew she liked to practice her lock-picking skills on the backdoor because the spiral staircase was the fastest route to hers and Garrett’s room. Knowing that he couldn’t outrun his sister, Garrett literally dragged Malcolm up the steps towards the front porch. But instead of opening the door like a _normal_ perso n, Malcolm leaned dramatically against the poor boy and placed the blame on gravity. Eventually, Garrett snatched the key hanging from his pants, leaving Malcolm to drop onto the porch with a great thud. The tall man groaned, rubbing his shoulder but Leandra rolled her eyes at her husband.

‘You deserved that,’ she chastised him, pulling the rest of the backpacks from the car.

 

(´w ｀ *)(´w ｀ *)(´w ｀ *)

‘Will Mother still let us go camping tomorrow? Carver and Bethy are still sick…’ Garrett asked, placing a few of Carver’s clothes into the drawer.

Malcolm rubbed his beard in consideration, then grinned at his thoughtful son. He was so always so amazed at how mature Garrett was for his age. ’They’re Hawkes, Gare. We’re tough as nails.’

Whilst unpacking his siblings’ clothes, Leandra came in with the younger twins, Malcolm helped her tuck Bethany into bed, then plopped on the floor. Seeing that Garrett was still busy putting away some of the clothes with the seriousness of an adult, Malcolm grabbed him playfully by the waist with one massive arm, beginning an onslaught of tickling that threw his oldest son into a mad fit of giggles. That made Leandra laugh at least, and she almost dropped the cloth she was using to sponge Carver with.

‘Do you need any help, Mother?’ the boy asked, still laughing and trying to squirm out of Malcolm’s grasp.

‘That’s quite alright, sweetheart. But thank you,’ she said, poking his knee with her toe. ‘Now go, have some fun, the both of you! There’s still a bit of daylight out. I bet Marian’s already covered in dirt,’ she groaned thinking of getting the girl to wipe her feet before entering the house from outside.

 

(´w ｀ *)(´w ｀ *)(´w ｀ *)

‘Are they asleep?’ Leandra asked, closing the book she was sketching in and Malcolm nodded as he came down the stairs.

‘I convinced Marian to let Garrett have the top bunk if she wanted to sleep by the tent’s entrance tomorrow night,’ he informed his wife smugly, plopping himself onto the couch beside her. He stretched an arm out around her shoulders and kissed her brow.

Leandra’s eyes widened. Marian was a stubborn girl and whatever her husband did was truly a feat. ’Whatever did you tell her to pique her interest?’

‘I told her that glowing fish only swim down the river late at night and that if you missed them, you’d have to wait until next summer to see them again,’ he explained, placing his feet onto the coffee table in front of them and crossing them over the other at the ankles. He wiggled his toes a little and felt a strain go up the side of his foot. He really was getting old.

Leandra pushed his feet off the coffee table with her foot. She hated it when her husband did that, even if he did wash his feet at least twice a day. ’Hm, she’ll catch on, you know. Then she’ll sulk for weeks.’

‘I’d expect no less. She’s a smart girl.’

’Taking after you, thankfully. I dropped out of art school, remember?’ she replied nonchalantly, placing her book beside her glass of champagne. It was a subtle thing, really, but Malcolm noticed the lack of lightheartedness in her voice. Leandra was always cheerful, even if she was serious at times. Any kind of unease that rang in her voice, he caught it easily.

‘What’s wrong, love? Are you still thinking about that fanatic?’ he inquired carefully and she had to look away. Leandra knew that if she so much as looked at her husband, she’d probably burst into tears. Malcolm waited patiently for her answer which eventually came in the form of a small nod.

 

Leandra was always polite in her responses towards her fans and fellow art enthusiasts, taking an hour a day to craft and send her replies. A lot of them were passionate about art just as she was. Some were just students who needed guidance in pursuing their dreams. Leandra often gave them that push. Then cam a particular email—seemingly harmless and as innocent as all the other emails. Then the man got a little invasive, taking advantage of her politeness. Eventually, Leandra stopped replying to him altogether.

Then came the letters.

Almost all of them were delivered without a stamp—to put it simply, he knew where they lived. Malcolm recalled reading those creepy letters. They were written in perfect penmanship, detailing not only how her works had inspired him, but went on to tell her how she reminded him of his dead wife. He never realised how mere words on a paper could make one feel… uneasy. Her stalker talked about the features of her hands and face with incredible precision that it was downright disturbing. Leandra broke down that night and they finally called the police to have a restraining order placed on him.

He took her hand into his and urged for her to look at him. When she finally did, her beautiful grey eyes were glistening with tears threatening to fall, and her jaw looked as though it had been locked into place from clenching her teeth too hard for too long. They always wondered where Marian’s stubbornness came from, and Malcolm was staring right at it. ‘We’re miles away, Leandra. There’s no way—‘

‘I just… I just have a bad feeling about something,’ she let out a shaky breath, catching a tear that finally rolled down her cheek with her free hand.

A part of Malcolm’s heart sank. He hated that this wife didn’t feel safe. He hated that he couldn’t do more for her. ‘Come here, love. We came here to spend some time as a family. The children haven’t had a trip since the Winter Palace last year.’

Leandra nuzzled into the crook of Malcolm’s neck, taking a deep breath to calm herself. Despite the summer heat, she welcomed his warmth. ‘I’m sorry, I know. And you’re right. I’ve been too bloody busy with work that it might just be the stress getting to me.’

‘Mother?’ a voice called from behind them.

‘Carver! Sweetheart, what are you doing out of bed?’ she asked her son with her arms outstretched, welcoming him to join their cuddle.

The sleepy boy rubbed his eyes and climbed onto his mother’s lap, yawning. ‘Bethany’s snoring and I can’t sleep…’

Leandra let out a laugh that could’ve easily woken the entire house and it sounded like music to Malcolm’s ears. He watched as she wiped the snot away from Carver’s nose and pinched his cheeks in glee, amused. ‘Well, your sister’s having a cold so she can’t really breathe through her nose now can she? C’mon, your father will make you a nice warm mug of hot chocolate, won’t you, dear?’

Malcolm raised a brow. ‘Hot chocolate? For a _sick child?_ Who are you and what have you done with my wife?’ he accused, leaning further back into the couch for dramatic effect which earned a painful smack on the thigh.

‘Oh shut it, you! You used to do it all the time for me when we were courting. Took the bus from that cafe you used to work at to my college and waited for me to finish class,’ she reminded him, standing up and hoisting Carver into her hip.

‘I got fired from that job, y’know?’ Malcolm added, still not budging from the couch. He remembered how much he hated that job, but seeing Leandra every now and then when she studied there was the only thing that made that job worth it.

‘You were a foolish, stubborn man.’

‘What can I say? I fell in love,’ he shrugged, finally getting up.

His wife planted a chaste kiss on his lips and Malcolm’s cheeks went red almost instantly. She giggled, amused that she could still make him blush after so many years. ‘Hm, yes, but you’re _my_ foolish, stubborn man.’

 

(´w ｀ *)(´w ｀ *)(´w ｀ *)

Wherever the Hawke household went, breakfast always seemed to be the time of day when the family was most lively. It was as though they thrived by just being around each other during most important meal of the day

‘Not like that, Mare! You’ll break the pancake!’ Garrett yelled at his twin, reprimanding her for trying to flip a pancake that obviously wasn't done yet.

She dropped the spatula into the frying pan with a huff and turned towards her chubby twin, frustrated. Malcolm kept a watchful eye on them as he helped Bethany onto her chair. ‘But it’s been sitting on the pan for a minute now!’

‘It takes three minutes on this heat, darling. They’re not eggs, so they don’t cook as fast,’ he told her, ruffling her short raven hair. He noticed that she was pouting when he handed the spatula to the more capable of the two. ‘Look here, see how the edges haven’t started to form little bubbles? It means it’s not done yet,’ he pointed out and she seemed a little less grumpy after getting an explanation.

The sound of a chair scraping against the wooden floor tore their attention towards the dining table behind them. ‘Carver Hawke! I told, you’re not tall enough to sit there!’ Leandra shot sternly at the boy who was trying his best to balance himself as he climbed onto the slightly higher chair.

‘But Garrett—‘

She held a jug of orange juice in one hand, and a pot of tea in the other, pouring its contents into their respective mugs and cups simultaneously without spilling so much as a drop. ‘Your brother’s a lot older _and_ taller than you, that’s why he can sit there—Maker’s breath, sweetheart do you mind helping your brother down? I fear he’ll fall anytime soon. ’

‘ _Achoo!_ ’ Bethany sneezed, and her fork clattered across the table. Garrett caught it just in time before it fell, and passed it to his sister before helping Carver down.

‘Bethany, cover your mouth next time please,’ Malcolm reminded her, passing her a kerchief he plucked from his wife’s pocket.

‘Owkay...’

Marian tugged on the hem of his shirt and pointed into the pan, asking silently if the pancakes were done. He grinned and kissed the top of her head as if to answer her and she proceeded to plate it onto the rest of the stack. ‘Right, that’s the last of the pancakes. Everyone get seated!’ he announced and Hawkes got ready to dine.

 

While the family got settled, Marian was tasked by her father to help with the servings. She went around with a plate of scrambled eggs in one hand, and a smaller stack of pancakes in the other. Malcolm served the strips of bacon, and Garrett helped to break the pancakes into smaller bits for Carver and Bethany.

‘Thank you, big brother!’ Bethany exclaimed happily, followed by another sneeze. Her face was immediately met with a napkin courtesy of her own twin.

‘Oh, you poor girl. There’s no way you’re going camping tonight. You’ll just freeze your little nose off!’ Leandra remarked, looking at her husband.

‘But mother!’ she whined, pushing away her brother’s hand from her face.

Carver resisted, keeping the napkin at her nose. ‘Blow, you dummy— **OW!** ’ 

‘Don’t call Bethany a dummy, _dummy_!’ Marian scolded him after flicking his forehead with her finger

This time it was Leandra who did the scolding, her voice lounder than the both of them combined. ‘Language!’

‘But Marian—‘

‘OKAY! Let’s remember where we are, alright? Everyone knows the rules: no fighting at the table,’ Malcolm threatened with a strip of bacon and everyone went silent. ‘Right, here’s what we’re going to do: we’re going to have a nice breakfast, then we’re all going to go outside to pick some herbs and mushrooms for dinner. I know what you're going to say, Leandra, but honestly a little vitamin D wouldn't _kill_ the poor girl , would it?’

‘As long as we’re back by lunchtime,’ she gave in, taking a sip of her tea.

A triumphed grin played at his lips and he gave his wife a quick nod in thanks before turning his attention to the children. ‘Agreed. Then Carver and Bethany can take a quick rest while Garrett and Marian help me to prepare for camp.’

‘Can I help cut the ingredients? Mother showed me how to use a knife proper the other day!’ Garrett raised his hand with a butterknife still tightly gripped. A drop of honey managed to drip from the tip onto his cheek and Leandra had to wipe it off with her thumb.

Malcolm gave a hearty laugh before taking a bite out of the strip of crispy bacon. ‘Sure you can. Marian, I assume you’ll be helping me peg the tents into the ground like I showed you two summers ago?’ he asked, and she nodded excitedly, her mouth stuffed with food. She looked like a chipmunk preparing to hibernate for winter.

The lighthearted atmosphere was broken by three firm knocks. Its sound echoed through the main hall into the kitchen, where it fell into the family’s laughter like a stone, breaking it into jagged pieces of expectant silence. The children stopped chewing, and the adults shared a look. Malcolm wiped his hands and the corner of his mouth onto a napkin and stood slowly, placing a firm hand on his wife’s shoulder before answering the door.

It was the detectives.

 

(´w ｀ *)(´w ｀ *)(´w ｀ *)

‘Like this?’ Marian asked, placing her hand against the sky. She squinted her eyes, then closed one and tilted her head

Malcolm laughed and placed his tinderbox by the firewood. Kissing the top of her head, she giggled as he helped her to adjust her fingers. She watched closely as her father set her row of fingers just under the setting sun above the horizon. It wasn’t particularly a horizon—really, it was just a lot of trees and a harmless stream—but she loved it. Every time  Marian came here, she would stand on the highest rock she could find and watch as the sun would set because of how the light reflected in the calm water.

‘How many fingers does it take to reach the horizon?’ he asked and she closed an eye to check.

’It hasn’t reached yet…’

‘Well, how many more do you need?’ Malcolm pressed, squatting beside her so that he was almost eye-level with what she was looking at. It was a beautiful sunset indeed—something one wouldn’t be able to appreciate whilst in Kirkwall unless they were somewhere in Sundermount.

Marian considered for a moment, then used two more fingers on her other hand to fill in the gap until it touched the horizon. ’Six!’ she exclaimed happily, earning another laugh from her father.

‘Now, each finger represents fifteen minutes. You have six so that’s—‘

She answered quickly. ‘An hour and thirty minutes.’

’To…?’ Malcolm’s voice was playful, delighted that his daughter was getting there. He recalled his own father teaching him the very basics of survival when they went camping.

‘Sundown!’ she exclaimed proudly with both hands in the air.

‘That’s my girl,’ Malcolm whispered and pinched her nose. A light blush formed on her cheeks, making her freckles even more endearing.

‘Is mother coming soon?’ Garrett called from nearby. He was washing some of the mushrooms they’d collected earlier in the forest. ’She said she would bring the pot to cook the—’

There was a loud shatter—like something thrown against a window—in the direction of their summer home and Malcolm felt the blood drain from his face. Immediately, he grabbed hold of Carver, who was sitting on an old log beside them and observing a frog, and instructed the older twins to follow behind him. Garrett and Marian obeyed. They held hands, grip tightening as they struggled to keep with their father. When Garrett almost lost his footing, Marian pulled her brother to steady him before they continued. There was dread in his heart. The kind that weighed down his faith with death’s vice-grip. Each step closer to their summer home was excruciating, and even before Malcolm reached their front door, he knew that Leandra was in trouble.

An old shed that Malcolm had been meaning to tear down stood at the side of the house. It was small, with the wood already rotting in some places and frankly, it was an eyesore against the pristine home that stood next to it. Malcolm had never been so thankful for the old thing. ’Your mother’s in trouble. Stay here, and stay hidden. Don’t come inside—for _anything_. Only reveal yourselves  when you see me, or your mother come through that front door.’

There was terror in Marian’s eyes, and she was blinking back tears. ‘But what—‘

‘Do you understand?’ Malcolm whispered harshly to her. His chest ached from his heart hammering against his ribcage, and his head throbbed from worry and fear. But if he could do anything within his power, he would at least make damn sure that his children were safe. The only way to do that was if they promised to trust him.

‘Yes…’ she replied quietly, sniffling and never taking her piercing blue eyes off her father’s. They matched his perfectly, just like Garrett’s did too. Carver—equally scared to silence—jumped into Malcolm’s arms and wept silently and Garrett had to coax his brother from the man.

Malcolm flashed them a smile. If this was to be his last, he hoped it looked convincing at the very least. ‘Good. I’ll be right back. Remember, stay hidden.’

 

(´w ｀ *)(´w ｀ *)(´w ｀ *)

When Malcolm approached the back door, it was already open. He moved slowly through the kitchen, carefully avoiding the pieces of glass and fragments of dinnerware that littered the floor. To his right on the counter where there would be a neat row of mugs hung on hooks against the wall, there was nothing but broken ceramic. Malcolm glanced to his left where he could _see_ the wisp of Leandra slicing loaves of Orlesian bread for the soup that they were supposed to have that evening by the fire. All that was left on the counter was a picnic basket carelessly strewn aside , and an ominous streak of blood smeared across the otherwise beautiful white marble countertop.

When Malcolm turned into the Great Room, he saw his wife—her right leg looked like it had been bludgeoned with something heavy, parts of her pretty sunflower dress had been torn and sliced with something sharp, and her arms marred with cuts from blade or glass. Her hands were the worst. They were placed a perfect distance away from her on each side, nailed to the wooden floor with her palms facing upwards.

What was most disturbing was her face—untouched, and without a single curl of hair out of place.

Leandra gasped with relief when she saw her husband and Malcolm was by her side instantly. She wanted nothing more than to hold his handsome face in her hands and she had to bite her lip to prevent herself from crying. _Now is not the time for tears_ , she told herself. The despair in Malcolm’s heart hung like a weight. It manifested into panic and trembling fear, and he was at a complete loss on how to remove the nails without hurting his wife further. A sound came from upstairs—the seemingly harmless sound of a door closing that sent chills down his spine. _Bethany,_ she mouthed to him. _Take our children and run,_ she whispered, almost choking  on her own tears. Malcolm stared into those eyes for the last time—searching for hope, for a way out of this—but alas, he knew what he had to do. He placed a kiss on her forehead—the last he would ever give her—and she told him how much she loved him before he backtracked into the kitchen and up the spiral stairs, leaving his heart where she lay.

 

(´w ｀ *)(´w ｀ *)(´w ｀ *)

Bethany was his priority. There was a certain kind of fearlessness when a parent has to protect their children. It was a fierceness that was equivalent to that of someone who was about to lose their soulmate. And in this situation, Malcolm Hawke was a force to be reckoned with.

The exact moment he opened the door to the guest room that Bethany was resting in, Malcolm heard his wife scream, then go silent. The dead, still air was even more excruciating than her scream, and regret soured in his stomach for not taking her worries seriously. For sending the detectives away that very morning. But he knew that now was not the time. He had a duty as a husband, and as a father: to save what’s left of his family.

‘Mama?’ the littlest Hawke called as he entered, trying to sit up from the mountain of blankets she was under.

Malcolm knelt at the side of her bed, grabbing a red scarf peeking out from a drawer nearby. ‘It’s me, sweetheart. Listen, we need to leave. I’m going to tie this around your eyes and you must promise me _not_ to  untie it until your brother and sister tells you to, alright? Promise me you’ll shut your eyes real tight?’

Bethany rubbed her eyes, taking in the sight of her worried father as well as the absence of her mother. ’Is Mother coming with us?’

He swallowed, trying his best to keep a straight face and be strong for his child. ‘Yes, of course she is. She’ll be right beside you just like always,’ he reassured her, holding up the red scarf. ‘Are you ready?’ He asked and the young one nodded. She was so innocently unafraid and it made him feel guilty for being thankful that she was. He tried not to think about how quiet the house seemed as he tied the scarf around Bethany’s eyes. Malcolm wasn’t trained in any form of self-defence and that made him nervous. What if the kids got hurt because _he_ couldn’t defend them?  Perhaps he should’ve asked them to stay at the campsite after all.

 

Taking a deep breath and holding onto his daughter, he exited the room. He made sure the coast was clear before trying to head back down the same way but before Malcolm made it half-way, he heard that unmistakeable clang of the fourth stair of the spiral staircase. Everyone in the family knew not to step on it because of how wonky it was and thankfully, Malcolm never got it fixed. Panicking, he doubled back and made it to the main staircase. It was then that a sneeze escaped his daughter, filling the silence both loud and snotty, followed by a series of coughs. By this time, Malcolm was bolting down the stairs. The only thought he had in his mind was of getting Bethany to safety but as he reached the landing, he saw his wife where he left her. Only this time, she was dead.

A moment was all it took for the past to come rushing back to him. When he first saw her, it was all it took for him to fall in love with her as though they were actors in a clichéd rom-com. Leandra’s presence in his life completed him. After all, she shaped the world around him when he was but a lost soul trying to figure out which path to take. And just like that, a moment was all it took for Malcolm to feel his whole world crumble from underneath him. Leandra laid there—lifeless and still bleeding from the precise cut from one shoulder to the other across the curve of her collarbone. Her beautiful eyes remained hooded, and her lips parted ever so slightly like a perfect, porcelain doll.

Pain shot through his shoulder. In a moment’s distraction, the killer had snuck up on him and drove a something sharp into his right shoulder. Malcolm tried his best not to scream, but his sudden movements scared Bethany regardless. When he felt her reaching for the fabric tied around her eyes, he sternly reminded her of her promise.

Stumbling backwards and trying to regain his balance, Malcolm managed to get a steady grip on the nearby barstool. It was one of Leandra’s favourite furnishings in this house—the dark wooden barstools complemented the high table they had in the Great Room. With quick thinking, he secured his grip on it and flung the heavy stool at the intruder with all his strength, praying to Andraste that it would buy him a few minutes to make a dash for the door.

It did.

 

(´w ｀ *)(´w ｀ *)(´w ｀ *)

‘What was that?’ Garrett asked, voice shaky.

Marian peeked from behind the shed, frustrated that she couldn’t see much. ‘I have a bad feeling about this. We should be going in to help Father!’

Garrett grabbed her arm just as she was about to dash off. ‘No! Father said to wait until—‘

‘He could be in trouble, Garrett! I thought _you_ were the oldest and the braver one!’ Marian hissed at him and  ran towards the front of the house. Before she could even reach for the knob, her father came stumbling out, blood seeping through his favourite checked shirt at the shoulder.

‘Marian? What did I tell you?!’ he almost screamed at her.

The girl’s eyes widened at the sight of him, taking a step back and unsure of how to react. ‘Father you’re bleeding! Where’s Mother? Is she—‘

Malcolm shoved Bethany to her and firmly gripped her shoulders. Upon seeing his father, Garrett was already making his way towards them with Carver in toll. ‘Marian I want you to listen to me. Take your sister. Both of you do as I say—take your siblings and go. If you go down the street we drove up, you’ll see _Teagan’s_ _Diner_. Get help—ask someone to call the police.’

‘But—‘ the two of them interrupted, and Malcolm kneeled on the ground, begging them to save themselves.

‘No buts. I love you—all of you very much,’ he reminded them, voice cracking. Malcolm took one look back into the house and got to his feet. He gave all of them one last great hug before shoving them down the steps. ‘You need to go. Run as fast as you can and don’t look back!’

That was the last time the Hawke children ever saw either of their parents.

 

(´w ｀ *)(´w ｀ *)(´w ｀ *)

Daylight had left, and the only light that lead the four Hawke children down the straight, desolate road was the occasional streetlamp every few hundred metres. Marian led the group—quiet and clearly shaken, but she only had one thing in mind and that was to get her family to the diner. Garrett followed after her, holding the hands of both the younger twins on each side. Carver mostly stared down as they walked, while Bethany tried her best to keep up. In the chaos of everything, she was the only one without shoes, and blisters were starting to form on her soles. Garrett noticed of course, and offered to carry her on his back but she refused, sniffling into the red scarf around her neck.

Almost two hours of walking later did the Hawke-Amell children finally reach a diner—Teagan’s. When they pushed through those doors, they were recognised immediately by the detectives who came by earlier that morning. The next few hours went by in a buzz, and Garrett swore he could only remember not letting his siblings go more than three metres away from him. He remembered sitting in the backseat of one of the detectives’ car with a very tired Bethany in his lap, nuzzled and asleep against his chest. Carver sat to his right, leaning against his arm and refusing to say anything, while Marian sat to his left, holding his hand as tightly as she could. They watched as the detectives drove up the very same road they had just walked down hours ago—back to where they’d last seen their father. The front door was ajar now, and their summer home was swarming with police officers and the like coming in and out of the house.

Garrett watched his sister as she stared at them intently—as if trying to read their lips from where they sat in the car. The intensity of her stare alone could’ve set the very house on fire. Whatever it was that she saw set her off, and Marian threw herself out of the car, sprinting towards the back of the house like she always did. The commotion woke their siblings, and Garrett instructed them to wait in the car while he ran after his sister. Marian was nimble and quick, and Garrett—being bigger and clumsier—made sure to follow her movements exactly to avoid being seen. But just as he was about to duck under the yellow police tape that obstructed the back door, Marian scampered out—eyes wild and panting like she’d been chased by a demon.

Upon seeing her brother, she took a deep, long breath, then exhaled. She firmly grasped his hand and pulled him away from the house and back to the car, wiping her eyes on the back of her arm. Even when they were back in the safety of the car, she didn't let go of his hand. Not until detective Emeric came to break the news to them that their parents were murdered, and she had to hold on to a distraught Carver while Garrett got down to his knees to comfort a wailing and sick Bethany.

A few days later over their parents’ gravestones, Garrett and Marian Hawke madesilent promises. To themselves. To their dead parents. To whatever was left of their small family. At nine years young, Garrett promised that he would raise the family as he thought his parents would, and that they would always come before him. Marian on the other hand, vowed to make sure nothing like this ever happened again.

October third was a day that they would never forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was by far the hardest chapter for me to write because I had been dreading to kill off Malcolm and Leandra and put the kiddos through all of that. Thank you so much for your patience! A huge shoutout to my wonderful beta, CuriousThimble for helping me always. Her guidance is always so spot on and it’s what keeps me sane most of the time! <3
> 
> Just a quick note; the following few chapters will carry similar themes, but as usual i'll place the warnings at the top of the chapters. It's going to get wild, readers. You're in for one. And thank you so much for reading, truly. I'm very heartened that this fic has been getting a steady pool of views even when it was on hiatus <3


	7. Lost Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the longest time, there was a lost boy in Kirkwall. He ran in circles, away from the devastating sadness that sat in his gut, afraid of what might happen if he moved on. Until one day, he found his way home with his heart clutched in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings in this chapter for loss, and grief.

* * *

I didn’t feel like going home yet, not really. My lungs still feel like they’re on fire every time I take a breath. I’ve calmed down for the most part, but the rawness and vulnerability that has settled itself within me would still be apparent to my siblings. They’d notice, then they’d ask and I think my emotional well-being has reach its threshold today. Telling Fenris about my parents’ murder was the most I talked about it in _years_.  The last time I poured my heart out like this was the year I met Lavellan. That must’ve been about a decade ago. How much time had passed…

Fenris and I walked back to his place. He told me of how illness had taken his mother in a heartbeat, and how he ended up in the orphanage at such a tender age. He was no older than I was when he lost his mother too. Is it bad that I’m glad he understands what it’s like to lose family at that age? You don’t just ‘move on’ from something like that. Had our parents eloped to Tevinter like they’d originally planned, fate might’ve allowed us to meet as kids and I’d make damn sure he didn’t go through his grief alone. Hell, my parents would probably still be alive, too.

Slipping into the alley, I decide to take the longer route home. Generally, one wouldn’t risk walking alone—even in Hightown—at night, but tonight felt a bit different. It’s funny—sometimes I can hear my mother nagging at me to be careful when I’m out or working late. I can hear her even though she never lived long enough to do that. To worry, and to fuss whenever I overworked myself, or stay out late with friends. Of course, I had Wynne to do all the above until we were old enough to care for ourselves.

But a Mother’s love is different, and I miss it to the point of aching on some days. Today, especially. I feel Father with me all the time to be honest, though, I know it’s not to say for Marian and Carver. They loved Father, so much, and I think they regretted not spending time doing the things _he_ loved. Like baking, and cooking. They had the selfishness of innocent children and always begged him to do things _they_ wanted.

Sometimes I think they’ve lost a part of their soul.

 

The streetlight above me flickers for a bit before going out and I take that as a creepy sign to get home before something grabs me through the walls. Fenris and I have watched enough _Supernatural_ to know  what happens when lights start flickering. I hear something like footsteps _on the roofs_ and I _really_ start to increase my pace.

Kirkwall is different at night—even here in Hightown. The majority of Lowtown is run by small family businesses and startups, The Gallows is our heart and center—and the busiest area from six to six—then you have The Docks which is where a lot of our trade comes in. Hightown itself is on the higher end of the districts. Posh jazz bars and pubs, small institutes, the library, museums, artisan studios (like mine). And don’t even get me started on Darktown. Anders asked me to follow him there once to survey a place for lease for his veterinary clinic and to be honest, I would’ve bolted from that dank place if he hadn’t caught me by the arm with a vice-grip.

The one thing all the districts have in common is that most places close by seven. Kirkwall’s pretty much a ghost town by then, save the few establishments that are open until late. It’s like that in smaller cities like ours—to encourage people to spend their evenings with their loved ones at home. During the first few years after the law was (lightly) implemented, petty crimes went down drastically. Though, we did see more chilling headlines in the years that followed. It seems that crime never went away in Kirkwall, just moved itself indoors.

Taking a right turn, I hop onto Stannard street and I’m immediately greeted by good ol’ _Bodahn & Sons_. I give a quick wave to Bodahn as he’s closing the register then I see Sandal waving a mop around at the back to poke a lizard the size of a dragon on the ceiling. My look of horror must’ve been apparent because Bodahn immediately turns around to attend to whatever mischief his son is up to. When I’m convinced that I _don’t_ have to call the fire department, I start walking up the street and pass by the bakery Father used to buy our bread from.

 _Tranquil Bakes_ was a simple bakery. It sold non-fantastical Orlesian loaves, both sugar coated _and_ chocolate sprinkle doughnuts, various too-sweet tartlets, and a variety of pastries. From what I know, it was run by a small team of people with learning disabilities to encourage businesses to hire such individuals. Hence, the quirky imperfections. Unfortunately, the bakery closed two years ago. Shame, it was where I saw my first brownie. Then I asked Father to teach me how to make one. _A_ piece. He told Mother and she laughed for days, like the stress of work lifted from her shoulders completely.

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

When I reach home, I realised that I’ve stupidly left my keys in the studio. I peer in through the window (not looking suspicious at all) and see Bethany sitting comfortably on the couch with a blanket over her legs, reading. Carver comes over and places a mug on her head and they break into laughter as she grabs a pillow in exchange for her book to throw at him. Then—like magic—he slips on something just as she aims, and I assume he’s just spilled hot-something all over himself now. Bethany panics and takes the nearest thing she sees (which is unfortunately, Marian’s very skimpy, and _very_ questionable boxer shorts) and wipes the hot drink off  of Carver. He’s of course both embarrassed and disgusted while our sister is incredibly amused, dropping onto the couch and clutching her sides from laughing too much.

I smile, then take my hand off the window before my siblings see me. Stuffing my hands into the pockets of my pants, I start to walk. Where to, I wasn’t too sure. I just didn’t want to spoil the lighthearted air at home with my sombre and nostalgic thoughts. Carver doesn’t like to admit it, but I know how these things affect him. Thankfully, Bethany is always there to ground him—to take a portion of that sadness that he _thinks_ he needs to carry alone.

To heal. She has that effect on all of us.

 

I end up wandering around Hightown until my feet ache. Passing by the now-closed library a second time in the last hour, I take a seat at the nearest bench I could find and fish my phone out. I flip it in my hand a few times—not really knowing what to do with it—before tapping the screen. There’s a message from Fenris, and one from Merrill (she sent me a picture of the flowers she prepared for us) and I swipe the notifications away before pulling out my contact list.

The tapas bar across the street erupts into laughter as a group of friends clink their mugs in jovial merriment. I grin, slightly jealous of their moment camaraderie after a hard day’s work. After scrolling through my (very small) list of contacts, I tap my sister’s number and it starts ringing. As I wait, I take in a breath of Kirkwall night-air.

The bench I’m seated on is in a small memorial garden not too far away from the entrance of the library. When the sun is out, it’s beautiful—there are waist-high hedges that surround the small perimeter of the garden. Within the space of these hedges, tulips of various shades give life to the otherwise marble-white space. Pale grey cobblestones pave out the straight path in the middle where several benches are placed, starting at both ends of the garden and meeting in a circle in the middle. A marble statuette of a single rose sits in a bell jar crafted expertly out of diamond. It sits delicately on a marble stand, and a gold plaque completes it with a quote.

_If you love someone, you must be_

_prepared to set them free._

I remember tripping on my shoelaces as a boy and falling right here on the cobblestones in front of the statuette. I scraped my knees badly but even then, I was stubborn. Little Garrett was a scared boy at nine-years young, bleeding and wandering the streets of Kirkwall in the dead of the night. I remember the first tears falling onto the back of my hand. Finally crying. I felt useless and desperate. If my heart could’ve dropped out of my chest, it would’ve right there and then. I don’t know how long I knelt on the ground, unable to get up, but I knew I wanted nothing more than to get to our summer house. I was a kid and couldn’t drive, so I wanted to walk all the way there. No matter how long it took.

I needed to make sure we hadn’t left our parents there.

Then I remember Wynne, embracing me like a grandmother would her grandchild. I didn’t know what she said, only that it made me cry until I passed out, exhausted.

Marian’s voicemail bleeps, and I try again, looking up at Isabela’s penthouse. The lights come on and I can see the silhouette of my sister as she pulls back the curtains and I attempt to wave to get her attention. Isabela approaches her from behind, wrapping a hand around her waist and she kisses Marian lovingly. My hand drops, and I can hear my call go to voicemail again.

There’s a weight in my heart—it’s something that’s always been there but tonight in particular, the ache is worse. Maybe it’s because tomorrow’s the anniversary. Maybe it’s because I’ve finally talked about my parents’ death to someone as an adult—actually ripped my heart out and put it onto a coffee table for someone to see. Maybe it’s because the rest of my family can actually fucking move on from their deaths. Everyone except—

My phone buzzes in my hand and when I see the name on the screen, my heart lifts a little.

‘There’s my favourite baker, and how is he today?’ Lavellan asks, and it’s as if the world knows exactly who I need right now.

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

‘CARVER!’ My sister yells from the front door into the house, but receives no response.

The window of Marian’s car rolls down and Carver sticks his head out, yelling back at her. ’I’M ALREADY IN THE CAR!!!’

‘Stop yelling at me! I’m five years older than you for fuck’s sake,’ she scolds, getting into the passenger seat. I guess that means I’m driving today.

The window rolls back up but I can roughly see their silhouettes still arguing. I think Marian throws a shoe at him at some point and I shake my head. Bethany stands beside me in a simple short-sleeved black dress and flats, grinning. She has her scarf tied differently today in a vintage style that covers the top of her head. The two ends cross-cross under her chin, then secures neatly at the back so that it still wraps snugly around her neck. It suits her, just like how it did Mother. Next to her, I look completely underdressed in my simple grey shirt and black hoodie.

‘They’re always nervous to see Mother and Father,’ she comments, clutching the book she has against her chest. It’s Mother’s copy of the Chant of Light, one of the two things that she never leaves home with.

 

We head to Merrill’s shop first to get the flowers. She hugs me tighter and longer than usual, then tip-toes to kiss me on the cheek before fixing the front of my hair.

‘ _Falon’Din enasal enaste_ ,’ she says sweetly and from the accent of the language, I know it’s of the  lost  one that she’s studied. We thank her, then make our short drive to the Bone Pit.

 

The drive up was a quiet one—Marian passed out the little steamed buns filled with potatoes and spices, Carver was busy tapping away on his phone behind her, and I could see Bethany staring out at the view from the rear view mirror. Marian asks what movie we’re doing this year and Carver wants to put on  _Avengers_  for the nth time. They bicker (albeit lightly), and Bethany suggests a few other movies before the three of them finally settle on one.

I pull up into the parking lot next to Sundermount National Park and we take the shortcut up to the cemetery on foot. Abelas—the lone gravekeeper—greets us with a nod at the bottom of the high, golden gates. Marian gives him a box of sweet pastries, which still surprises him to this day, and he accepts it appreciatively. Carver grabs two of the water buckets made of ironbark that comes with a brush and a water ladle with an elongated handle made of the same wood.

‘Wouldn’t using a little squirt bottle be easier to clean the gravestones?’ Carver casually remarks, filling the bucket under the tap until it’s half full while I fill the second, and tosses in a palm-sized drawstring bag full of soap nuts that’s already prepared on the table nearby.

‘It is spiritual,’ Abelas answers, suddenly behind us and we all turn to him. He adjusts his half-moon glasses and clasps his hands behind him. ‘Ironbark comes from sacred trees in Thedas. Ever since the demise of the Brecilian Forest, it is now only found in the deep forests of the Arbor Wilds. The water buckets and ladles are carved by hand as they have been for centuries, and a priestess kneels in the old temple of Mythal, reciting the cleansing prayer in ritual until the items are complete.’

Abelas gestures my brother towards a well nearby and we follow. Carefully, he lifts the ladle that sits on the edge of the well and dips it into the water before pouring it into our buckets. I can’t quite explain it but... you can tellhow different the water is. It sparkles, to put it simply, and the breeze that suddenly picks up seemed like it held a whisper.

‘ _Falon’Din enasal enaste,_  and may the blessed waters of the  _Vir’Abelasan_  bring peace to your departed,’ he utters the same phrase as Merrill did before, bowing slightly with a hand across his chest and he remains that way until we start to head off into the cemetery.

 

We get into our routines quickly and start to tidy up our parents’ grave. Marian begins pulling at the stubborn weeds that have grown, and Bethany retrieves a pair of garden shears from her red satchel and starts trimming the grass around the gravestone. After folding his blazer and setting it aside on the grass, Carver dunks the brush into the now-soapy water and starts scrubbing the gravestone and I pour a ladle of clean water from the top to rinse it off. The whole process takes about ten minutes at most, and Bethany places the fresh flowers onto each grave before I light the two newcandles with Marian’s lighter. Throughout the whole process, our sisters lightly hum the lullaby our parents used to sing to us. Bedtime always felt a little more magical because of the lullaby.

Wordlessly, we brush the dirt off each other to look more presentable, then stand in a small, half-circle with hands clasped underneath our chins and close our eyes. Everyone but Marian, of course, who’s standing awkwardly with her arms folded across her chest. The black bomber jacket she’s wearing today makes her look smaller than she already is.

I hear Bethany flip through the pages of Mother’s book, then she begins to recite the prayer. Today, she’s chosen a passage from the  _Canticles of Apotheosis_. In a clear voice, she tells us of the moment Andraste dies—of how the skies wept and how the ground trembled in  earthshaking sorrow at the lost of our prophet. Of how the pyre of which Andraste burned would not be extinguished as the heavens grieved. Of how Harvard—unto death—took the ashes of his Lady and pressed them to his heart. Then Andraste appeared before himinboth starlight and moonlightas the dark skies parted, healing his wounds and dubbing him with a new title for all to remember: _Aegis of the Faith._

‘Right, who wants to go first this year?’ I ask, and Bethany’s hand shoots up like the university student she is. We watch from a distance as she plucks a petal from one of the flowers and holds it to the flame. It catches fire quickly, then she sets it down next to the candle and proceeds to tell our parents anything she wants as we busy ourselves with Wynne’s gravestone not too far away.

Once Bethany is done, Carver goes next, then Marian, and finally, me. I take a deep breath and plop myself onto the ground to face their gravestone. A droplet of water rolls down Father’s name and I reach out to touch their names. Something about feeling their names underneath my fingers makes my breath hitch, and I recover quickly by plucking a petal from the flowers to hold it over the flame.

Usually, I take the least time to talk to our parents. I tell them about what kind of cakes I’ve made recently, or how the family is doing, and joke about how I’ve finally gotten them to clean up after themselves. But this year is different. This year, I feel more vulnerable and I no longer feel ashamed about it even though I’m the oldest. I watch as the petal burns out and its ashes sits with the rest. Taking a breath, I gather my thoughts, feeling the familiar sensation of my heart dropping out of my chest and I look up to their names again. I wipe the tears that have rolled down my cheek with the back of my hand and laugh. Then, composing myself, I greet two of my favourite people in the world.

‘Hello, Mother, Father. It’s me, Garrett. I’m feeling a bit chatty today, if you don’t mind.’

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

We drop our siblings off in Lowtown before making our way back home. Bethany had a lunch appointment with a friend, and Carver offered to grab some snacks and organic popcorn kernels from Merrill’s. Siobhan greets us when Marian and I get home and she starts rubbing against my pant leg, purring like there’s no tomorrow. Marian scoops her up and nuzzles her nose while I take the necessary ingredients out of the fridge. Since today is a special day, Siobhan gets a fancy home-cooked meal from me. Thankfully, Marian’s around to distract her long enough for me to prepare her food.

‘What’d you tell them? You took longer than usual this year,’ Marian asks, picking a toy from Siobhan’s toy box and waving it around. It’s one of her favourites with a little faux dragonfly attached to the end of the string.

After bringing the pot of water to a boil, I start to slice the slab of yellowfin tuna into smaller chunks. ‘I told them about the festival last year, about Carver’s promotion and how I think he’ll join them in their graves soon because of how hard he’s been overworking himself’

Marian snorts, picking up a crinkle ball and tossing it across the kitchen into the living room. Siobhan looks from the wand-toy, to the crinkle ball, and decides to chase after the latter instead.

‘You’re avoiding my question, Garrett,’ she notes quietly, almost whisper-like and I take my time to boil the chunks of fish before answering.

‘I told them that I finally talked about it. The full story, in every detail I could remember,’ I answer, meeting her gaze and her eyes widen.

She sets down the toy and sits on the unoccupied space of the counter. ‘Oh Gare… when?’

I take the chunks out and dunk them into the ice bath. ‘Yesterday. Fenris came by the studio to tell me about something and…’ I take the fish out from its cold bath and let my knife hover over the the chunks, trying to swallow the heartache caught in my throat. My sister touches my shoulder and rubs it gently, not saying a word but I know she’s telling me to take my time to compose myself. So I do.

‘What was it like, the first time you talked about their murder?’ I ask, and my knife slides across the board in a steady pace, turning the fish chunks into a pâté-like mush.

‘Angry,’ she answers immediately. ‘Like my chest had been forcefully torn and my heart ripped out. But I had… Anders with me,’ Marian takes a moment before saying his name. ‘He quelled this dark rage inside of me. Told me to channel that anger into driven passion instead. We were fifteen then, playing truant and sitting on a cliff at the Wounded Coast, eating fruits that I stole from a cart in Lowtown,’ she smiles fondly as she recalls the memory.

With a ladle, I scoop up some of the bonito broth that I’d prepared beforehand and let cool in a bowl. Then I spoon it into Siobhan’s serving dish before adding the fish-pâté that I’ve made. ‘That was when you decided you wanted to work your way into Criminology. I remember you coming home one day and telling me that. We didn’t even _know_ what criminology was! ’

She laughs, swinging her legs back and forth a bit like she used to as a little girl. ‘He healed me—my rage, my sadness. He’s the reason why I had an ambition. Fuelled my stubbornness into striving for a career _so hard_ to work in when I could just be working in a bloody office like everyone else.’

I put a hand on her knee. ‘I’m sorry you guys didn’t work out.’

She shrugs. ‘I’ll always love him. But we were inexperienced, and foolish, and we promised ourselves to each other way too young. It was going to happen sooner or later,’ her voice was calm when she tells me this, but she doesn’t look up at me.

We were quiet for a moment, just staring at each other before she rakes her hand through my fringe. Mother used to do this a lot. ‘What was it like for you?’

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and exhale. ‘Overwhelming. Maker knows I kept it too long inside.’

‘You did, but I’m proud of you, Gare,’ she reaches out and hugs me, holding me for the longest time. ‘I’m always proud of you.’

When she lets go, she’s crying and the sight of my sister’s tears makes _me_ cry. We try to wipe each other’s tears whilst sobbing and laughing at our uselessness, only to break away from the moment  by a judgemental—and impatient—meow from Siobhan.

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

After changing out of our clothes and taking a quick shower, we both collapse onto the sofa. I check the status of our food order and I see Marian opening and closing her text-chat with Isabela.

‘She didn’t text you?’ I ask, nodding to her phone.

My sister tosses it aside and shakes her head. ‘Oh, she did. But she wants to go for drinks. She thinks I should, quote, _drown my sorrows in lust and alcohol_.’

I cringe. ‘Hey, she’s _your_ girlfriend.’

‘Oh you’ve never liked Isabela from the start,’ Marian punches me on the arm. ‘But I don’t blame her. It’s her first long - term relationship. She… she’s trying, in her own way.’

I envelope her with a massive arm and kiss her head. 'Hey, one day I’ll probably have a boyfriend and _you’ll_ hate him. Then we can call it even,’ I joke, and her laughter is infectious.

We stay that way for a bit until she notices the thing on our coffee table.  ‘Oh look, Aveline stopped by while we were away this morning!’ Marian points to the gift basket with a toe. It has a little card with the picture of a marigold on it.

As Marian reads the card,  I pull the basket onto my lap and examine the thoughtful contents of fruits, cheeses, and two bottles of fine spirits. Our favourite red-head has been the whole family’s emergency contact for _years_ and she as a set of the house keys just in case . Anytime she thinks we’re spiralling (me, working on too many orders, Carver, staying overnight in the office, and Marian… possibly eating instant-anything everyday) she usually barges in, armed with fresh groceries, a lecture, and sometimes, detergent.

Marian gives the bottles a nod of approval after examining the labels. ‘That woman knows her alcohol.’

We see Siobhan’s ears perk up and she lift s her head  before breaking into a trot towards the door. Not two seconds later, it opensand we see Bethany giggling and waving someone off before closing it.

‘Who was that?’ Marian asks, almost hanging off the sofa to get a better look from the window.

‘Sebastian from kindergarten! I bumped into him after my lunch da— _appointment,_ and h e made sure I got home safe. Is Carver back yet?’ she peels off her scarf and shakes her curls back into their usual style. There’s a very… suspicious expression on her face and Marian and I exchange a look.

‘That Vael boy? You and Carver haven’t seen him in years! Does he still have good head of that red-flaming hair of his?’ I tease. 

‘Does he have a nice rich brother for Garrett? Then we can live the rest of our lives in luxury.’ I elbow her, and Bethany throws a sock at her. _Carver’s_ sock.

While Bethany checks the fridge for something to munch on, I turn to Marian.  Telepathically, I remind  her that she’s going to  h ave to give _the talk_ to Bethany. And like true twin-telepathy, she reminds me that _she_ already gave that talk to _Carver_. I groan, and  get an eye-roll in return. Then Marian slaps me on the thigh and holding up the sock and my eyes widen at what she’s implying

_‘Maybe_ ** _he’ll_** _tell_ ** _her_** _so we won’t have to.’_ Twin telepathy is real.

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

When Carver comes home with the popcorn kernels, he changes out of his mourning clothes and helps me in the kitchen while our sisters make the drinks. I  ensure that they’re all popped and perfect—discarding any unwanted kernels—while Carver melts the butter and adds the the dried herbs.

‘Mare! I have school tomorrow!’  we hear Bethany argue.

‘Oh just a splash , Bethany! Let’s not let these spirits that Aveline gave us go to waste!’ she tries to coax, eliciting a groan from the youngest Hawke. Bethany can’t hold her alcohol and her face turns bright red after her first glass. They bicker a bit more while Carver  drizzles the butter over the popcorn and seasons it with salt, pepper, and a bit of paprika for an extra kick.

When the pizza arrives, we pop in the DVD into the player and squeeze ourselves onto the longest  sofa in the living room, snuggling ourselves in fuzzy blankets, snacks within arms reach, and the comfort of family around us.

We do this every year on this day, and every other time when we’re all feeling a little vulnerable but refuse to admit it. As kids, we used to be able to fit perfectly on this very sofa with our feet hanging off the edge. Our parents sat across us in their lover’s seat. Even Siobhan doesn’t lounge there—just the armrest at most.

When the strums of guitar comes on, our chatter dies down. There’s a series of photographs that flashes on the screen as the verse of the opening song is sung. We start munching quietly on our pizza, and pass the Hawke-worthy bowl of savoury popcorn around until the first scene comes on. As usual, a woman named Holly bursts through the doors of their building, seething. Her husband—Gerry—scampers after her begging her to tell him what he’s done this time and she just stares coldly at him before storming up the many flights of stairs into their apartment.

When Holly starts throwing things at Gerry, Marian leans against my arm.

When Gerry asks Holly—tenderly—if she wants kids, Bethany hooks her arm around mine and holds Carver’s hand, thumbing the back of it lovingly.

When the couple bicker about whose turn was it to switch off the light before bed, all of us let out a long, shuddering sigh, bracing ourselves for the next scene.

 _P_ _.S._ _I Love You_ was o ne of our parents’ favourite movies, and there’s never a dry eye in the room within the first five minutes into the movie.

 

By the time the movie ends, it’s past nine and the doorbell rings again when we’re cleaning up. For the second time today, Siobhan excitedly trots towards the door and purrs excessively.

The very familiar blond is at my door when I answer it and I understand why Siobhan’s excited. ‘Anders! When did you get back?’ I ask, greeting him with a friendly hug and our cat does the same, flopping over his foot and kneading into his ankle.

‘Just now, actually,’ he tells me, nodding to the small luggage behind him. For a man who’s been gone for a year, you’d think he’d have brought more belongings with him. He bends down to rub Siobhan on her belly and she nips him gently.

‘Anders?’ I hear my sister behind me and feel her touch on my elbow.

Anders stands, brushing invisible dust off his jacket and steadies himself with his walking stick. ‘Hey.’

‘What are you.. doing here?’ Marian asks, but doesn’t move. Her voice, quiet and careful.

His eyes linger on her for a moment before recalling why he came to our home. ‘Oh, right! I bought you flowers,’ he turns to retrieve the little paper bag with a small bouquet that’s sitting on his luggage. ‘Sorry they aren’t anything special—I landed an hour ago and the gift shop didn’t have better flowers.’

Marian takes her bag appreciatively and her voice is still shaken by uncertainty. ‘You remembered. And thank you, these are lovely,’ she tells him. Peeking into the bag, she finally smiles.

Anders mirrors it, shifting his weight a little with his walking stick. He must be exhausted from his flight. ‘Of course I did. Marian, I remember the important stuff.’

I can feel her wince slightly when he says her name, but she recovers quickly, letting go of my elbow and grabbing her car keys. ‘Come, I’ll drive you home. It’s the least I can do,’ she offers, and he flashes her a tired smile, thanking her as they make their way to the car.

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

A few days after visiting our parents’ grave, Krem pays me a visit at the studio. There’s a wedding convention this week and Bull’s Chargers secured a last minute booth so it was all hands on deck—myself included. It was two days of prepping cakes and different flavoured ganache, then cutting them into perfect rectangle slices before wrapping, labelling, and boxing them for Krem to bring over to Starkhaven. That’s when I realised that one of my customer hadn’t responded to _any_ of my emails about his wedding cake.

‘Dorian, no offense but your wedding is _next week_ and you have to decide on the flavour of the cake. It takes me—’

‘—five days to make the thing, yes yes, I heard you the first _three_ times you’ve relentlessly reminded me ,’ the man retorts, still typing away on his phone.

That remark hits probably the last nerve in me and I have to clench my jaw from saying anything that would make Bull (and me) lose a customer. Varric sees the flicker of annoyance the way my eyes twitch and is thankfully—as always—my saviour.

 _‘Excuse the Tevinter, Hawke. He’s been having an… interesting week,’_ he tells me, and I can’t help but feel a little betrayed that Varric’s taking his side.

I hear a shuffle of papers from the screen and he adds on to the comment.  _‘Though, Sparkler, my Baker-friend is right._ _Look, h_ _e’ll bake you the best damn cake in all of Thedas that you’ll want to plan another wedding just so you can order it again.’_

I smirk. That was much better.

The man regarded Varric’s remark and sighed, finally relenting. He chucked his phone aside on the couch and proceeded to devour half of each of the cake testers that I’d prepared on the oversized cheeseboard. Wordlessly, he folded his arms and adjusted the way his skinny ponytail sat, looking at each of the cakes and their names at least twice before setting the fork down silently. Varric and I exchange a look, shrugging before Dorian cleared his throat.

‘Well, one thing’s for sure—and it’s that Varric’s word in our little office of death is _law_ ,’ he looks to my friend, then to me. ‘As much as I hate to admit it, these are some bloody remarkable cakes,’ he admits, and I have to restrain myself from grinning too hard else my face might crack.

Out of the six cakes, Dorian had chosen a simple dark chocolate cake with a tart passion fruit curd in-between each layer. When I ask what kind of frosting he’d want to pair it with he simply said:

‘Give me a fudgiest chocolate ganache you have.’ You’d think he was just a person who _liked_ chocolate, but the way he said it seemed... mischievous.

 _‘I thought you said she hated chocolate?’_ Varric says, looking up from his paperwork.

Dorian grins, brushing the crumbs from his moustache with a napkin. ‘Exactly. It’ll drive her absolutely mad! Oh, what do they call it when a woman goes off the rails on her wedding day?’

‘Bridezilla,’ Varric and I answer in unison.

‘Yes, that! If it’s a wedding she wants, it’s a wedding she’ll get.’

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

‘Well _he_ sure is a character,’ I say to Varric as I’m looking over the details of the cake that we agreed on.

_‘I know he can be a bit… much, but Sparkler’s usually a nice guy. I blame the arranged marriage for the pissy mood he’s been in_ _,’_ Varric defends once again. He takes a sip of his coffee and I wonder how many cups he’s had today.

An arranged marriage? It’s no wonder he’s so dead set on pissing off the bride and everyone who forced him into this. ‘You know, as complicated as that sounds, it might not be so bad as long as the bride’s a nice person, right?’

Varric frowns, confused.  _‘Hawke, buddy. Did you_ really  _just_ _ask that question?’_

I blink, setting the papers aside.  ‘What? Did I say something wrong?’

_‘Does Sparkler seem like someone who’s_ **_straight_ ** _to you?’_

When he doesn’t say anything else, I stare at him, equally confused. ‘What are you—oh. _OH_.’

 _‘This is why you’re still the only single gay man in all of Kirkwall,’_ he  sighs and before I can retort, the bell at the door rings again and Fenris steps in.

Varric leans to the side, as if trying to take a peek at who’s just entered and he sees him.  _‘Ah, there he is. The not-boyfriend, right on queue.’_

‘We’re _friends_ ,  V.’

‘Sure you are, ’ he smirks, then goes offline.

 

‘Was that Varric?’ Fenris asks, placing our takeaway bags onto the counter. 

I stretch, feeling the pop of my bones and the tension in my shoulders.  ‘Yeah, still  ever so  insistent that we’re _dating._ ’

He laughs, taking no offense, thankfully. Any normal person would be weirded out by such a comment. Not Fenris, though. ‘Well if we are, you should have told me. I would have brought you a box of chocolates.’

I  cringe,  giving him a look of sheer disapproval. ‘Fenris, it’s like you don’t know me at all. _A box of chocolates?_ A box of _artisan cheese_ is much better.’

He takes the stack of papers sitting on the counter and  whacks me with it. ‘Hilarious,’ he tells me, rolling his eyes.

I’d been busy, so I hadn’t seen seen Fenris since the other day. It’s nice having him around for lunch today. I tell him about the dramatic Dorian Pavus and he listens  with his usual attentiveness  as we polish off our  lunch.

‘The library is holding a Halloween event at the end of the month,’ he  announces out of the blue as I’m clearing the coffee table from today’s cake tasting. ‘You should come with your siblings. We’re open after hours and there will be food and games. And a  monster  house.’

‘Do we have to dress up?’ I ask,  taking some teacups from him and  placing  them into the sink.

‘It is not mandatory, but a good number of people usually do, ’ he  tells me, pulling out a flyer from his bag and placing it on the counter for me to look over later .

I take a quick glance at it and realise something.  ‘Wait, this is a yearly event? How have I not known about this??’

Fenris shrugs, raking his hair with his hand and adjusting his fringe a little.  ‘Well for one, you didn’t have me in your life.’

‘Oh ew, you’re such a sap, you know that?’ I retort, threatening him with a wet rubber glove. ‘Are _you_ dressing up?’

‘Unfortunately, it _is_ mandatory for staff to  attire ourselves with costumes.  The head librarian has already placed an order for them,’ he sighs, and I can hear him swivel around in my Thinking Stool.

‘Oh, what are you going as?’

‘You’ll have to see for yourself, won’t you?’ he teases, but I know what he’s doing and I’m grateful for the distraction.

‘We’ll be there,’ I assure him and he seems relieved.  I turn off the tap and turn back to him.  ‘You should probably get back to work. I can get the rest of the stuff.’

He considers this for a moment, then takes out his phone and types briefly and waits. It chimes, and he replies the message, then pockets his phone into his jeans. ‘I believe I just took the afternoon off.’

‘You didn’t, ’ I say, eyes widening.

He nods, taking his glasses off and setting it into his shirt-pocket. ‘You’re doing it again—you’ve been overworking yourself so that you don’t have to be alone in your thoughts. I sympathise with that, but Hawke, you must understand that it isn’t healthy.’

‘I know. Maker, _I know_ ,’ I tell him simply after awhile. Not knowing what else to say.

Sometimes I hate that he’s right. But most times, I’m glad that he is.

After a moment, I set the tea towel down onto the  counter.  ‘Do you want to follow me somewhere? I’d like to introduce you to some important people.’

 

(⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙) (⊙﹏⊙)

For the second time this month, I find myself sitting in front of my parents’ grave. I don’t bring the water bucket today, but I did borrow a cloth from Abelas just to wipe away any dust that has gathered itself on their gravestone.

Fenris sits beside me on the grass and places a hand on my shoulder, encouraging me. ‘Hello, Mother, Father. It’s me, Garrett, and I brought a friend with me today.’

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no, dear readers. I would never allow Dorian to marry a woman, no matter how nice she is. there _will_ be drama in the next chapter!


	8. It is an Eluvian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Baker and Librarian visit Orlais for work, they meet an unusual shopkeeper with a mirror... and a prophecy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> triggers in this chapter are minor, but they are as follows as they may cause some discomfort to some: racial profiling, hints of anxiety, and a bit of creepiness towards the end.

* * *

The first thing I see when I get to the library, is Fenris scowling. He's at the counter, hunched over in complete focus on the book in front of him. A patron approaches him before I can, and I see the sigh that leaves him, his shoulders sagging in defeat. He closes the book, shoving aside and attends to her, leading the woman to the payment kiosk. Curiosity gets the better of me and I reach over the counter for the book. To my surprise, I know this book _very_ well. It’s a Batman classic—Death of the Family—where Jason Todd a.k.a the second Robin is brutally murdered by The Joker. Spread out across the counter are all its loose pages and I can see  what’s gotten my favourite librarian so on edge.

When Fenris returns, he's more surprised to see comic books in neat stacks.

’Wow, you look absolutely _thrilled_ to see me, ’ I tease, looking as hurt as a kid who didn't get his candy.

He snatches one of the comics and flips through it, utterly bewildered that the loose pages now ran in order with the rest of the book. ' _How?_ _!_ The pages are not numbered and I've been at it for _hours_ , Hawke.'

I shrug. ‘I don't know. I just went with the flow of the story. It isn't that hard if you read comics.'

He huffs. ’Thank you. You have no idea how much trouble you've saved me today,’ he says, plopping back down onto the chair and resting his head on the keyboard. 'Now I have to fix them all,' he groans.

‘Why do you, though? They're not library books,’ I realised that when I was arranging the pages in order.

He sits up, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s trying to stifle a headache. Fenris clearly had a long morning. ’They were left on the book donation shelf last night. Someone has been doing this for the past few weeks and I feel it a waste to throw such books away. They are in fine condition despite its loose pages.'

‘They're pretty good story-arcs, too,’ I inform him, taking a few up and showing him the spine labels. ‘See these? It says NEW 52. They're about seven years old, but the story-arcs are _essential_ to the new ones. I call them new-age-classics. ’

Fenris looks at me like I've been speaking in a whole other language. ‘I thought you said you haven't been to the library in years?’

I hand him back the comics and he places them neatly onto the rest of the pile. ’I haven't. I just go to the comic store in Lowtown once every few months and devour what I can find. The shopkeeper lets me, as long as I bring her honey glazed muffins every third Friday of the month.'

A lady comes to the counter requesting for her books to be renewed. Fenris directs her politely to the kiosk where she can do it herself and she looks a little surprised that such a function was available without her coming over to the counter. ’Huh. That certainly is an interesting arrangement. You'll have to take me there one day. I should like to see for myself what is so fascinating about these comic books that you love so much.'

My jaw drops. ’Wait, what did you say? Can I have that in black and white, and signed?’ I coax, bending over the counter to peer at his screen and he flicks my forehead. Hard.

‘Do you have everything? My shift is almost over,’ he asks uncaringly as I rub my forehead.

I check my phone for the time and thankfully, we’re still about an hour early. ’Yup. One of Bull's guys is waiting for us in the parking lot the next street over. He'll drive us to the studio to help me with the cake, then to the Gallows to send us off. After that, it's two agonising hours fearing that the cake will topple over in the bullet train.’

Fenris places the _Counter Closed_ sign onto his desktop and stands.  ’It won’t.’

'How do you know?'

He folds his arms, smirking. ’Because I'm not as clumsy as you.'

‘Ouch, Fenris. Harsh,’ I whine, then the Head Librarian happens to walk out of the office. She lifts a single brow at me and I know that's her way of saying hello.

I stop leaning against the counter and straighten my posture out of habit. ’Head Librarian, you look very lovely today.'

She takes a moment to look down at her dress—it's slightly poofy at the bottom, with a black corset that hugs her waist beautifully to show off her figure. The colours of deep purple and burgundy match her makeup, making her golden irises stand out gloriously.

‘Yes, I suppose I do. Kieran is receiving a scholarship today and there is an award ceremony. 'Tis not everyday that I would wear such a thing—or for anyone for that matter. But my son is the exception.'

‘You must be very proud of him,’ I tell her earnestly. As scary as she may seem, there’s something warm about the way mothers speak about their children. She’s no exception.

‘That, I am,’ she replies with a gentle smile, then clears her throat. ‘Fenris, do enjoy yourself at the conference in Orlais. It is not as mundane as it seems,’ she tells him as she leaves, waving us off.

 

(´w ｀ *)(´w ｀ *)(´w ｀ *)

We reach the station with just five minutes to spare (thank you _very much_ , Kirkwall traffic) and I almost trip over the  platform gap whilst carrying the larger tier of the cake (Fenris has the smaller and lighter tier) but  praise Andraste, he catches me.

He helps me hook our shared luggage in the middle carriage just by the doors and secures it with a temporary code while I wrestle with my cakes. Thankfully, the train departs smoothly and I've planted myself in the safety of its comfy seats. Fenris settles himself beside me with a book, and some sandwiches. My stomach rumbles.

‘ Where'd you get that? ’ I ask, slightly disappointed that I don’t have one.

He peels open the packaging with his teeth and takes one out, ready to munch on it. ’ I had the right mind of grabbing something at the convenience store before we boarded. ’

‘I was juggling _two_ cakes, Fenris, ’ I begin to justify myself, then he pulls out something else from his bag. It's a riceball, and I could've sworn my face had cracked from smiling.

I shift in my seat a little, making sure that the cake boxes _won’t_ topple over and reach for the riceball. There’s a little purple dot on the rop of the packaging and my heart _sings. ‘_ Oh, you even got me the one with the little sour plum in the middle!’

Fenris leans back into his seat armed with his sandwich and book, looking pleased with himself. ‘ What will you do without me, Hawke? ’

 

The journey to Orlais takes about two hours by bullet train. It speeds past most of the stations on the main line—stopping at three more stations before moving on with the journey. It's nice, this. We get to see the transition of busy city-life to rural countryside of the Free Marches, then just wide open lands of hills,  pasture, and farms littered about. Somewhere along the line, the scenery changes to blankets of snow. Then it goes back to the the lush green lands cape again—passing the grand Winter Palace briefly before we finally reach the main capital of Val Royeaux.

Since Val Royeaux is the literal throbbing heart of businesses across Thedas, it's always packed with people no matter the time of day. Kirkwall may be a port-city where trade comes in from ship, but Orlais stands tall and proud with big-name companies, true to its personality and people.

When we step off the platform, it takes us awhile to navigate our way through the never ending tunnels. Maker's breath, there are probably ten different lines that lead in and out of the city underground alone! Finally finding our way to customs, I look around and spot Krem and Dalish waiting for us on the other side of the massive glass doors after the gantry. Fenris places the box that has the smaller tier on the one I'm already carrying to retrieve his passport and ticket.

Since the cakes  are mine, I decide that it was best that I make my way through customs first. Two officer s greet me politely. The taller one asks me about my cakes, making friendly conversation, while his superior checks my ID and passport. There’s genuine surprise when I tell them my profession, and strangely, acceptance. I even show them photos of some of the cakes I’ve baked and the taller one even considers placing an order for his daughter’s birthday in the coming months.

I still find it strange that we have to go through customs even though we're essentially in the same continent, but I guess  these are safety measures because of how many people actually come through these very gates.

‘I’m sorry sir, but I'm going to have to ask you to step aside,’ I hear from behind me just as my passport is stamped and I turn around so quickly that I almost drop the smaller tier.

‘What?’ I blurt almost too loudly and I see a customs officer make a grab for Fenris’ arm, pulling him out of the crowd. The gesture isn't rough or rude, but the sight of it leaves a sick feeling in my stomach.

Noticing that _I’ve_ noticed,  Fenris holds up a hand towards me, shaking his head slightly.  ‘It's okay, Hawke.’

‘No, it's not,’ I answer him immediately, then shift my stare to the officer. ‘My friend hasn't done anything. And you can't simply grab someone like—‘

‘Hawke. It's fine,’ Fenris says a bit more firmly now, gripping the strap of his bag  tightly and his eyes don't leave mine. It's a look I haven't seen in him before, but I know that he's telling me not to complicate the situation.  ‘I’ll meet you outside.’

 

Reluctantly, I let him be taken away.  The officer tells him something and Fenris nods, then removes his hand from his jacket pocket to show that he has both his passport and ticket on his person. Then, he’s being escorted into one of the rooms nearby.  That's when I noticed other people being singled out and  guided into similar rooms. No one seems to take much notice  to this — Maker , _I_ probably wouldn't have if it  wasn’t Fenris being pulled away. Quite frankly, that's the scariest part of it all.

I plant myself right at the door after literally shoving the cakes to Krem and Dalish, not caring that people were giving me looks for blocking their way out.  I suddenly remember my last trip to Orlais with Varric at this exact station, scared for my life when the customs officer pulled out a sachet of Varric’s ‘harmless hallucinogen’. He stared at it for a total of three seconds, winked at me, then returned the packet where he found it and stamped my passport. I had a literal contraband with me and the officer looked the other way while Fenris—who carries nothing but a harmless book and his glasses with him at all times—gets pulled away for being… himself.

After about fifteen minutes, his ashen hair comes into view amongst the crowd.

‘ What happened? Are you alright? ’ I ask worriedly as I pull him to the side.

He nods, taking his glasses off his shirt and putting them back on. ‘I am, you needn't worry about me. They patted me down , asked me some questions, then checked my bags.  It happens all the time when I travel.’

‘ There's no way that's normal ,’ my throat tightens, completely taken aback by the comment.

He shrugs. ‘One learns to get used to it when they are a person of colour. My tattoos are just an added check for suspicion.’ 

 

(´w ｀ *)(´w ｀ *)(´w ｀ *)

The best part about having ties with one of the best wedding planners in Thedas is that Bull hooks me up at the hotels that the newly weds are staying at. He knows everyone and anyone, and has the dirt on their secrets and gossip. Heck, I'm pretty sure he even knows their secrets' secrets. You'd want two things from a man like that: favours, and to not get on his bad side, and in order to get them, you'd have to give him favours, too.

Our room is one on the lower floors with the rest of the Chargers—and a spacious one, no doubt. It's a twin room with two  queen-sized beds draped with sheets from the finest tailors of Orlais, exotic, velvet curtains from Toussaint, a toilet with cold marble tiles from Orzammar, and fine furniture shipped straight from Novigrad. How do I know this? Varric, of course. I showed him a picture of a room in this very hotel once and he could tell where everything came from at first glance. He said that it'd be a nice party trick I could use one day to impress a date.

‘Oh wow, a bott le of _Mettina Rose?_ ’ Fenris’ eyes widen at the bottle displayed on the coffee table, complete with a handwritten welcome card.

I take a look at the card and snort.  ’Oh no, even the hotel staff thinks we're dating.'

‘ Is it on the house? ’ he asks, already setting down his bag onto his bed and swiping a wine glass from on top of the minibar.

‘ If I know Bull, even the room service is.’

 

While Fenris pours himself a glass of one of the finest Beauclair has to offer, I take my clothes out from  the luggage and fold them neatly into one of the drawers. Fenris decides to leave his in, taking only his  toiletaries and claiming one of the cups in the bathroom with his toothbrush.

I check for any emails from Bull, but there are none , which means I’m free until the day of the wedding. ’ Right, we have the whole day to ourselves tomorrow. Do you want to check out some snotty Orlesian culture? ’

‘Sure,’ he answers, looking up from the room service menu. There's a knock at the door and he gets up to check the peephole.

‘What do you see? Who's that? Do I need to get out my pepper spray?’ It’s not Kirkwall, but it doesn’t hurt to be safe than sorry. I’ve heard enough stories from Marian and Aveline to be rightfully scared about opening hotel room doors.

He turns to look at me, confused. ‘ I believe I'm staring at someone's chest.’

‘Che-OH!’ I toss my keys and pepper spray onto my bed and reac h to unlock the door .

‘There's our Champion baker! Hawke, it's been awhile!’ Bull greets me with the friendliest bear-hug in the world. He practically _lifts_ me off the ground, then messes with my hair when he puts me back down. I swear, only Bull is the only person to be able to lift me like that.

‘ Bull, hey ! ’ I greet him in-between a laugh.  ‘ It's good to see you too. Krem thought you wouldn't make it in time for the flight. How was it? ’

He grunts.  ‘ Bad. I'll never get used to flying. You know, I think they make the seats too small. _On purpose._ Plus, every time there's turbulence, my head hits the damn aircraft! ’ he whines, rubbing his bald head.

I laugh, and Fenris takes a sip of his drink.

Bull cranes his neck to the side. ’ Hawke, you aren't going to introduce me to your... _companion?_ ’ he takes a moment before giving me a little eyebrow-waggle.

‘ Oh, right. Bull, this is Fenris the —’

‘ _Fenris?_ He's that librarian you keep telling us about! ’ Bull bellows and he whacks me on the shoulder. I'm pretty sure I've dislocated something now . Fenris qui r ks a brow at me as he and Bull exchange friendly handshakes.

‘ What, do  you  not talk about me at work? Fenris, I'm _offended,_ ’ I  whine ,  feigning hurt and Bull let out yet another roar of laughter.

‘On the contrary, I do, actually,’ Fenris says so nonchalantly and the expression he has is so… earnest. The comment surprises me pleasantly, too, and I don’t quite know how to respond to that but with a smile.

 

Bull and I chat about the wedding preparations for a bit while Fenris dives nose-first into a book with his second glass of Mettina Rose. I go over the last-minute touches I need for the cake and assembly and Bull asks if I required any assistance but I decline . I knew how hectic it would be for the Chargers to manage and I've grown accustomed to working alone.

Bull leaves just before ten and I see that Fenris is still reading . Only this time, his position ha s changed from poised and crossed-legged, to both legs draped across one side of the lone armchair in the room. His face is scrunched up in concentration, lips pursed to one side while the book sits awkwardly on his chest , too close to his face.

He catches me staring without even looking at me .  ‘ What? ’

‘ You look like a cat, Fenris, ’ I  comment , getting a change of clothes and  a fresh towel . Maker , I need a nice hot shower.

I hear him turn a page as I enter the bathroom . ’ Says the one who literally slides down the couch like a slug when you read your comic books. ’

‘Hey!’ I yell from the bathroom, my voice slightly muffled from trying to tug my shirt off my head. When I finally wrestle it free, I catch my own reflection in the mirror and suddenly I'm aware that Fenris can see my silhouette because Andraste forbid that all fancy hotels need bathrooms like these. Varric calls them ‘intimate bathrooms’.

‘ Fenris? ’ I call out to him , draping the towel over my shoulders so tha my manly bosoms are covered at the very least and I feel a little less conscious.

I hear him get off the couch. ’I’ll be on the balcony, Hawke,’ he waves with the book on hand as he makes his way towards the balcony. He really is the best.

 

I've always been a big child. People say that when you're tall, it's impossible to be chubby. Well, I'm the one-percent, it seems. I've never really been bothered about it until … well, until we all grew up. My sisters are stunning examples of both sides of the mirror, and Carver's jacked out of those damn suits he wears everyday to work. Me? I'm just … me, I guess.

Chubby ol' Garrett.

Despite not attending public school, I was still on the receiving end of being bullied because of my size. The worst was when I picked my siblings from school after work. I’d be sweaty in the same shirt I wore almost everyday and my too-big-a-size shorts looking like I’d just finished a marathon. Twice. There were whispers about the only Hawke child who _didn’t_ go to school, sure, but I didn’t let them bother me. I was more worried if it bothered my siblings, though, but I’d gotten my answer all those years ago when Bethany literally ran into my arms every time I  picked the twins up . Even Carver  held my hand quietly as Bethany did all the chattering for him.

I worked odd jobs and while kids my age were  walking to school each morning , I was going the other way to  work. I delivered milk bottles, newspapers, walked dogs, worked at the docks (transporting ungodly amounts of barrels filled with fish)—literally any kind of work that I could get my hands on to earn any amount of money. I did everything to save enough even though we were under financial aid and didn’t even have to worry about the house. I was the oldest. If my siblings had no one to look up to then…

I’d have failed as a brother. I’d have failed my parents as the  eldest child.

My phone chimes and I see a picture attached to a message from Bethany. I sit on the edge of the tub that’s already filled with water and tap on the screen. The picture expands from the message and it’s of a place here in Val Royeaux. Immediately, she sends me another picture—the same one, only this time, she’s holding out a  photo of our parents in the same exact spot. The photo is old and sepia coloured, and my father has his arm around mother’s waist while giving the cameraman a proud thumbs up. Mother has a hand on Father’s cheek and I can see the ring on her finger. The ir smiles are so bright that I almost think they’re still here with me.

[Bethy] 10 : 20pm

He proposed to her right here !

[Garrett] 10 : 20pm

Where’d you get this picture?? :O

[Bethy] 10 : 21pm

Uh… there was an archive of sorts at the university! Mother did an interview for our school paper about young artists who broke into the scene just shy of graduation. She submitted this picture for one of the questions.

[Garrett] 10 : 22pm

What was the question?

[Bethy] 10 : 22pm

_‘Who inspires you the most?’_

There’s a flutter in my stomach when I read that and I lean back, feeling a bit dizzy with nostalgic happiness that I forget that there’s a bathtub full of water behind me.

‘Hawke?!’ I hear Fenris stumble into the bathroom at the sound of a literal tsunami that has just occured. Other than me hitting the back of my head onto the tub, I give him a thumbs up with the hand that’s holding my phone up in the air, away from all the water. He sighs, then helps me up.

‘I thought something had happened. You  frightened  me,’ he scolds, throwing a towel at my face.

I catch it  awkwardly .  ’Sorry, just me being clumsy, you know? What’s new.’

‘Don’t do that again. I will have to answer to your siblings if I come back without you. Then I will have to quit my job and move across the continent , ’ Fenris jokes, and it amuses me that he has a contingency plan all thought out.

‘I’ll bet you fifty-dollars that Marian will still be able to track you down.’

Fenris narrows his eyes at me, then holds out a hand.  ‘You have yourself a deal, Hawke.’

 

(´w ｀ *)(´w ｀ *)(´w ｀ *)

My little baker heart _sings_ when we enter _W &H: Emporium of Bakes_. W&H only has one branch in all of Thedas and thankfully, it sits right here in Orlais. I’ve been meaning to come here for a while now, but  never had time to . It’s a standalone building just  three station s away from Val Royeaux, nestled in a district with craft stores, floristries, and numerous shops that sold all kinds of loose tea at every corner. In short: it was a Baker’s paradise.

Fenris f inally  releases his grip from  the messenger bag I have across my torso and I almost run into the woman in front of me at the entrance. I’ve been like an excited toddler  all  morning and Fenris is just making sure that he doesn’t lose me. I mutter a quick apology to the woman before immediately grabbing the nearest trolley I can find.

‘I thought we were just browsing?’ Fenris adds, eyeing my vice-grip on the trolley. Technically, that’s what I told him.  Though, that’s a blatant lie. Garrett Hawke does not simply ‘browse’ when he is presented with such _wonders_.

I make puppy eyes at him. ’Fenris, look at this stuff, isn’t it neat?’

His brow  arches  curiously, trying to process what the hell I’ve just said.  Then Fenris goes wide-eyed when he finally realises what I’m doing and tries to make a run for it but I block  his  path with the trolley.

‘Look at this trove, treasures untold,’ I whisper-sing to him, pushing him into the aisle of literally _hundreds_ of gel food colouring. ‘How many wonders can one cavern hold? Lookin’ around here you’d think~’

‘You already have all of this, Hawke,’  he tells me sternly, one hand on the trolley to stop me from pushing him any further.

I nudge him with the trolley. ‘Fenris, that’s not the line!’

He gives me a hard look and when I don’t give in, he sighs. ‘You’ve… got everything,’ he finishes the line flatly.

‘I’ve got gadgets and gizmos a plenty! I’ve got whozits and whazits galore!’ I whirl the trolley around into the aisle just in front of it with all the fancy tools, then hook my arm around his neck so that he can’t escape. ‘You want thingamabobs?’ I point to a retractable silicone whisk. A lady and her son walks by, takes one look at us , and slowly walks away.

‘You’ve got _twenty_ ,’ a chuckle accompanies his answer which is—I should add—part of the lyrics. Somewhat. You don’t sit around watching Disney re-runs with my family without knowing the lyrics by heart. One time, I caught Aveline singing to Mulan’s _Make A Man Out of You_ with a broom in one hand and a mop in the other. It was a glorious day.

I let go of him dramatically, half-twirling back to the colouring aisle whilst picking three bottles of shades I _know_ I don’t own , dropping them into the trolley. ‘But who cares? No big deal~’

‘And I’m assuming you want _more_?’ Fenris shakes his head at me, but the grin he has betrays him calm demeanour completely. He sighs, finally relenting. ‘Fine, alright ! But your wallet stays with me,’ he smirks, holding  it up in front of him .

Hawke: 1, Fenris: 1.

 

All jokes aside, we were done in two hours. I picked out everything I needed—special chocolate couverture brands to try out, some edible decoratives that I don’t already own, new patterned cake boards, and some new offset spatulas. The bill came out to be less than a hundred dollars and Fenris gives me an approval by handing me my wallet. Self-restraint? Check. I did, though, take a longing glance at the _beautiful_ stand-mixer in the window display when we were leaving. Fenris has to pull me away, reminding me that I already had a heavy-duty mixer in the studio. That’s the problem, though. I have _one_. I can only imagine the amount of time I’d save if I had another one. But he’s right. Just because I can (almost) afford it, doesn’t mean that I should buy it. Plus, it was Father’s.

During lunch (which was overpriced and consisted of too-small-portions) we see a few police cars drive by the little eatery we were at. Everyone either stood from their seats or craned their necks to get a better look at where they were heading, but Fenris and I continued eating like any normal person in Kirkwall would.

‘D’you think it’s strange?’ I ask mouth full of the chicken baguette that I’m half-way through with. This is my _second_ one.

‘That we as Kirkwallers do not even so much as bat an eyelid when it comes to law enforcement driving by in a mad rush?’

I snort, and he’s right. ‘Spoken like a true Kirkwaller.’

Fenris cuts into our dessert and gives it a taste. I watch as his nose wrinkles slightly, then he sets his fork down and takes a sip of his coffee. ‘Yours is better.’

I laugh, setting my baguette down and wiping my hands on a napkin. Even though my friends always praise my bakes, it’s still flattering to hear such comments. He leans across the table lazily and armed with a fork and knife, cuts into a bit of my lunch while I take a bite out of the tarte that we ordered. I let the sweetness of the apple filling sit a bit on my tongue and crush the shell of the pastry on the roof of my mouth. He’s right—the shell is a bit too dry, and the baker tried to make up for it by adding a bit too much glaze or sugar into the filling that it became too sweet.

‘It’s not bad,’ I try to sound humble because Maker knows that this baker was probably just starting out, or simply experimenting. I was that baker once. ‘A bit more practice and I think it’ll be just right. How’s the baguette?’

‘Better than Marian’s,’ he tells me honestly, and I can’t argue with him there.

 

We decide to walk through Val Royeaux instead of taking the bus. It took us over two hours, but I’m glad we did it. The capital of Orlais was rich in culture and history from its people, their wares, to the very floor we walked on. You could tell from the old cobbled stones still embedded into the pavement. Sometimes you’d walk pass a manhole cover that has the design of an old Thedosian sovereign.

It was like walking through the ages—the outskirts of the capital stretched with land beautifully pastured by free-roaming farm animals, a handful of vineyards, and part of the Waking Sea that carried a lot of trade from the Amaranthine Ocean through Kirkwall, then finally into the heart of Orlais. As the picturesque view moved inwards towards the city, the skyline changes dramatically. In mere minutes, the sight of rolling hills and old cottage houses shifts, replaced with towering buildings that painted the city’s ever-growing cityscape.

Fenris wasn’t much for taking pictures, I realised soon enough. When we stopped at buildings or monuments of significance, he preferred to to inhale the many historical texts engraved into its plaques. He would fold his arms in thought, circling a statue of some sort as he took all of it in. At times, he’d push his glasses up, eyes scanning the artwork from top to bottom, forest-green eyes dilated with fascination. Sometimes, he’d even take notes on his phone and I couldn’t help myself. The image of him against these artworks was one on its own and I just had to take a picture. Or three.

_Click._

It was getting pretty obvious when we were leaving the traditional parts of Val Royeaux to the more modern bits. The ground underneath us became less cobbled, shops around us less antique, and the people that walked by us were of more mixed ethnicity. We passed the embassies of Fereldan, Antiva, and Starkhaven—all their banners and flags displayed vertically on their buildings like proud sashes of royalty. Then came the grand Headquarters of the Thedosian National bank, and its smaller cousin (and only branch in Thedas) off the continent from Novigrad: Vivaldi’s. Peppered through this central business district were several museums of all kinds, multitudes of cafes and restaurants, and boutiques filled with branded accessories that caught the eyes of both men and women.

And in the middle of everything, was the marble statue of _Kordillus Drakon_ —the first emperor of the Orlesian Empire.

 _Click._ ‘You would think that they would have Drakon sit on a throne in gaudy  orlesian garb before immortalising him into such fine marble.’ Fenris turned to look at me, then back at the statue that stood almost as high as a building.

Clad in the heavy orlesian armour, Drakon stood unglamorously with a hand on his shortsword, and another holding the traditional male orlesian mask that he used to cover only half his face. It was the only thing that was gold in colour and I’m assuming it wasn’t _painted_ gold. On his back was his famous shield, the one they called the _Shield of the Emperor_. The ferocity in the lion figurehead matched its mask-counterpart well, making the statue of the Emperor a perfect symbol of Orlais’ political and military power dating back to the ancient ages.

I look up, shielding my eyes from the blinding sunlight. ‘I remember Mother telling me about him. He wasn’t a fan of politics, but he was a skilled general. They say that he insisted on the armour instead of some frilly orlesian garb. He was a soldier through and through, and refused to be seen as anything else.’

He looks back up at the statue again, and I steal one last photo of him. _Click._

 

(´w ｀ *)(´w ｀ *)(´w ｀ *)

‘Where did you say this mirror was again?’ Fenris asks, finishing off a pastry we got from a nearby bakery.

I swipe through Merrill’s messages and instructions. ‘It should be… a street down, then into the alley on the right.’

There’s a definite shift in the air as we made our way through the alley—it was a straight one, but the number of people certainly thinned out as we made our way further in. Somehow, the walls seemed like it was closing in on us and I started to feel a little claustrophobic. Had it not been for Fenris, we’d probably missed the sign altogether.

‘Is that a… corpse?!’ I pull my hand back from the sign. Unbelievably, it was scorched _into_ the wall.

‘Apparently so,’ Fenris remarks, trailing a finger on the sign.

‘I am seriously questioning Merrill’s judgement in antique shops. Oh look, it’s even _reading_. How wonderful ,’ I blabber on, trying not to seem freaked out.

‘It has a good taste in books— _Cautionary Tales of the Adventurous_ , by Brother Ramos of Guilherme. A classic horror,’ he smirks, and I groan at him as we enter the shop.

 

 _The Black Emporium_ can’t be searched on _Widdle Maps._ Nor can you simply just _ask_ someone on the street about it. You’d have to know someone who knows _someone_ to find its exact location, and I think I know why.

The first thing that greets you is a long, narrow hallway that is reminiscent of something out of _The Shining_. On either side of the  corridor are as many doors as you can think imaginable, squeezed into a narrow space that would give claustrophobia a run for its name. Since there is no indication as to which door was what, we try our luck with the first few. The one I open to my right was a dusty shoe closet. Fenris’ first door was locked. Then he had one that opened into a wall, while mine led down into a dark stairway (which I slammed closed in a heartbeat).

‘NOPE,’ I slam yet another one, calling it quits even though we were barely halfway through the doors.

‘What was in that one?’ Fenris asks, stepping beside me and looking from the door to me.

I pale and swallow a fear that has me choked on my own words. ‘A single room which looked like it hadn’t been used since the Storm Age. Fenris, there was an old wooden rocking cradle.’

‘It _is_ an antique shop, no?’ he shrugs,  taking hold of the doorknob and I hold him back with a firm hand to the shoulder. I shake my head at him.

‘Fenris,’ I bring my voice to a whisper. ‘It was rocking on its own!’ He gives the door a suspicious look—as if he wants to see it for himself—and I whisk him promptly away by the hand. I was _not_ going to die a cursed death by the curiosity of my best friend. I’m not that white person in all those horror movies. Bethany made us promise we’d always be smart about those kinds of decisions.

As I’m trying to figure out our fates in this questionable place, the door at the end of the hallway creaks open. It doesn’t open far enough for someone to notice, but the sheer creepiness of the sound of ancient wood going against rusty hinges is distracting enough to pull our attention towards it. We exchange a look and like a true friend, Fenris shoves me forward because he knows I’m this close to chickening out.

 

Rows and rows of cages decorate the ceiling—and I don’t mean your usual bird cage. There are cages meant for all kinds of small animals… as well as ones that would fit the average human. Long, narrow ones that hang vertically so that the skeletons inside are standing or slumped in an upright position (well, as upright as it was able to get). The room is bigger on the inside—high ceilings dimly lit with old-fashioned braziers, the walls fully cramped with a myriad number of bookshelves of various heights and sizes, random clusters of display shelves and tables occupying any free space available, of course, the true hoarder-worthy disorganisation of books stacked and shoved at every possible shelf and corner. Then, from the corner of my eye, I see it.

The mirror.

‘It is called, an _Eluvian_ , boy,’ a voice booms and I jump back into Fenris who in turn stumbles backwards into the door.

 _The door._ I whip around. ‘When did it close?!’

‘My Urchin boy closed it. He makes sure that there are no _lingering eyes_ that might follow,’ a man emerges from one of the bookshelves. He looks extremely… _ancient_ , and is incredibly tall, dressedimpeccably in a striped light grey dress shirt and a darker tweed vest. His tie is done up nicely, and the simple black pants he wears accentuate his legs, making them seem even longer than they already are.

‘Moist… towelette?’ he asks, and a boy no younger than eleven appears next to Fenris with a tray carrying exactly what he said. Fenris of course doesn’t so much as flinch.

‘Uh, no thank you,’ I decline politely and the man waves the boy off.

As he approaches us in two easy strides, he holds his hands in front of him and regards us curiously. The shopkeeper adjusts his monocle, squinting his eyes at me especially, before finally speaking again.

‘You are Garrett Hawke, yes?’ he says so surely, enunciating the R’s and T’s in my given name dramatically.

I nod stupidly, afraid of offending the man.

‘I have been expecting you. They call me Xenon the Antiquarian, keeper of all things ancient, and the all-knowing,’ he introduces himself, disappearing back into a shelf in search of something. We follow his whereabouts by keeping an eye at his head that bobs out from above the shelves. After meandering through the display shelves scattered throughout the floor (I had to suck my tummy in lest it bumped into something priceless), I’m finally standing in front of what I think is the mirror that Merrill is trying to acquire.

‘It’s… beautiful,’ I say under my breath, reaching out to touch it. I… don’t know what it is about the mirror but I could feel a thrum of _something_ just under my fingertips. It  feels like a song—a hushed lull to draw me into it. The sensation both thrilled and frightened me, as if I would fall into another dimension if I so much as touched the surface.

Its surface was another thing altogether. The reflection on it was slightly blurry and there was a strange blue glint across it as I stepped forward, completely entranced by it’s… being.

‘HANDLE the mirror… with care. It has been known to bite,’ Xenon warns me suddenly and I instinctively retract my arm. Behind me, Fenris snorts and claps me on the shoulder, indicating that he’ll be around to peruse the wares.

‘How does a _mirror_ bite?’

Xenon scoffs at the word as if he didn’t just use it himself. ‘Firstly, by calling it what it is—a mere looking glass,’ he educates me, pushing the frame lightly so that it starts spinning clockwise on its podium at an ethereal pace. ‘It is an _Eluvian_ ,’ he tells me again, the tone of his voice encouraging me to use the name that’s been given to it through countless ages. As it turns, I see the intricate gold patterns engraved into the back. There’s a sentence in the middle of it, but it’s in a script that I don’t recognise.

‘ _Tarasyl'an Te'las,_ ’ the words leave me awkwardly, and I decide to make a note of it in on my phone.

 

As beautiful as the mirror was, Xenon tells me that it wasn’t the one that Merrill had her eye on. He leads me further to the end of the room and with a swift movement (and a cloud of dust), he tugs at the long white cloth that covers another Eluvian. It’s… different than the first one. Unlike it’s more sublime counterpart, this Eluvian stands just a head taller than me, and the design of tree branches that wrap around the bottom looked downright gaudy. Even the gold was wearing off. But that wasn’t the biggest problem with theis Eluvian.

‘It’s broken,’ I say, frowning to him and Xenon simply nods with hands clasped against his chest.

‘Indeed it is, but I believe that your friend has an… acquired taste for the broken and lost, no?’ he reminds me nonchalantly as I turn back towards the antique in question. Gingerly, I reach out to touch it and when I do, there’s just emptiness. I feel taken aback, and I think Xenon notices it too. There’s an emotion that sits like a deadweight in my gut. Like a betrayal. There is no thrum under my fingers, no song into my soul, nor is there a glint that threatened to pull me into another world.

It stood there, defected and simply _unmagical_.

‘Why does it do that?’ I ask quietly, clutching my hand against my own chest and with a wave of his hand, he throws the cloth back onto the Eluvian effortlessly.

He has on a wistful smile now, then proceeds to walk to where his work-counter is on a higher platform to our left. ’It is not its fault that your standards lie with its sister,’ he chides me gently, scribbling something onto a piece of old parchment before folding and sealing it into a small envelope.

‘Your Historian will find all that she needs in here. But, do remind her that our sister shop in Kirkwall has been closed. Permanently.’

My eyes widen as I take the envelope. ‘There’s _another_ emporium back home?’

‘ _Was._ An old friend—Sylvan—decided he wished to retire from the business. He mentioned something about planting great oak trees to help populate the Brecilian Forest ,’ he tells me as he shuffles around to neaten his workspace.

‘But the forest is _dead_ ,’ I say, and it’s true. Every Thedosian knows that the forest died when the plague spread through the lands.

Xenon closes a drawer irritably. ‘That’s _exactly_ what I told him. But he claims to have obtained a magical acorn,’ he scoffs. ’He will soon turn into a mad hermit if he stays there for long. I shall get my Urchin boy to fetch him next month. But there was something in the floorboards, too… ’

I find Fenris and we decide to take our leave. Xenon sees us to the door and before I exit the emporium, he holds me gently by the arm. ‘You… will have a visitor. She will come to you bearing the dragon’s legacy engraved in her being. Her soul is scattered—lost and afraid. Heed my advice, boy. Do **not** turn her away.’

 

(´w ｀ *)(´w ｀ *)(´w ｀ *)

Time seemed to pass very strangely in the Black Emporium. I could’ve sworn it was just past three in the afternoon when we entered. Now, as Fenris is getting the both of us a nice cool avocado-coconut concoction from a nearby stand, the sun is already setting.

My phone rings and it’s Aveline.

 _‘Gare? Is Bethany with you?’_ My sister’s voice comes through the line instead.

Fenris returns with our drinks and hands one to me before taking a seat on the bench. ‘She has classes today, but we’re meeting her tomorrow and she’s bringing Fenris around before the conference. Mare, what’s wrong?’

 _‘Aveline’s just got off the phone with Donnic. He told her that a body’s been found in Val Royeaux’s Summer Bazaar.’_ I go completely still and Fenris nudges me with his knee. I turn to him briefly and he raises his eyebrows in question. I just shake my head silently.

 _‘Garrett, it’s the same kind of murder from last year. A young lady, a missing body part.’_ For some reason, my heart drops. Just what is she implying?

I stand and start to pace to concentrate but it’s the peak hour and there are about a thousand cars passing through the streets now. ‘The Summer Bazaar. That’s... it’s a stone’s throw away from the university!’ I yell into the phone, my patience wearing thin.

On the other end of the line, I can tell that Marian’s patience is too because her voice is throat-cut now. _‘Aveline. Shut. Up. I don’t care a fig that you don’t believe me. Garrett, call Bethany. The body isn’t hers, but just…_ ** _fuck_** _. Just make sure she’s alright.’_ She hangs up and  I feel the blood in my veins turn to ice. My skin prickles and every sound around me drowns out until my heartbeat is the only thing I hear.

Absolutely terrified, I call our younger sister immediately but when Bethany’s phone goes to voicemail, I start to panic. I try about five more times, my pace starting to build as I walk up and down the small path from Fenris to the roadside again and again.

Sixth time, voicemail again. I curse out loud. ‘Bethy? It’s Garrett. There’s been a murder near the university and… fuck, Bethany Amell-Hawke we’re worried sick! Call us—‘

I didn’t even hear the blaring horn of the truck that was going to hit me. I stagger back onto the pavement, breathing heavily and staring at Fenris’ worried-stricken face. He’s gripping my arm tightly, unwilling to let go.

‘Hawke,’ he calls me carefully, as if making sure that I’m aware of what just happened—or, what _could_ have happened had he not prevented me from walking into oncoming traffic. ‘Breathe,’ he instructs me, and I obey, taking one long, shuddering breath after the other. Around us, the small crowd that has stopped and gathered starts to disperse, resuming their pace  back into their ordinary mundane lives.

 

Thankfully, Fenris is tech-savvy (and calm) enough to check Bethany’s social media—something I have absolutely no clue about.

‘She posted something on her _Instashot_ about  three hours ago,’ Fenris passes his phone to me and it’s of a picture of her in a long grey flowy skirt with a deep-red messenger bag to her side while she’s carrying a stack of books in both arms. _Last class for this week! Going on a little adventure later!_

I take the last sip of my drink, forgetting that I’d drank everything when Fenris finally got me to sit  down . That was thirty minutes ago. ‘Hawke, she could just be somewhere without reception. Even if she went on say, a hike, she’s supposed to meet us tomorrow  so she could not have journeyed very far,’ he tries to reassure me, and I try to believe him.

He has a point, I note, texting Carver back. He’s not heard from her either since this morning.

‘She will be fine, Hawke,’ he  reasons , but I don’t hear him amidst my racing thoughts. I send yet another text to Donnic, then Marian, then check Bethany’s Instashot account again. I pull down at the screen to refresh the page, but am met with the same picture of her with the same bloody caption that was posted _hours_ ago—

A tattooed hand hovers over my phone before cupping it tightly against my own, breaking both my thoughts and actions, forcing me to look at Fenris . ‘She will be fine, Hawke,’ his voice is quieter now, as if trying to qualm my frustration. I relent, clicking the button on the side so that it turns the screen off.

’Thanks,’ I tell him, letting my guard drop. Fenris doesn’t say anything. Instead, he offers me a smile and passes a newly bought drink for me.

‘When did you have time to get another one?’

He shrugs, evading the question. ‘I figured that you needed something to keep your beard from bursting into flames in this heat.’

I laugh, feeling the tension release from my body. ‘Haven’t you heard? This beard’s fireproof. You want to know why?’

He leans back, tilting his head so that he’s facing me to give me a look.  ‘I have the feeling I don’t…’

‘Because of all the sweat it’s holding , ’ I joke, making a grab for his hand to rub against said beard.

‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Hawke,’  Fenris shoves me with an amused yet disgusted chuckle.

Then my phone chimes, and the screen lights up with a message and I can feel everything around me disappear into the void.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i decided to add the bit about racial profiling in this chapter. i admit, it was a chance i took because i hadn't seen it been done in fics and i wanted to address/show that such situations do exist. the scene with Fenris is based off my own personal experiences when i traveled, and they are not ones that i will likely soon forget.


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